


A New Kind of Normal

by DoctorNichole



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: 2003, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Romance, Chameleon Arch, F/M, Masterbation, Mental Health Issues, Never Quite Normal, Never Quite Simple, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rehab, Sex, after the war, eventual aliens, human doctor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2019-07-03 04:23:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 39,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15811278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorNichole/pseuds/DoctorNichole
Summary: A New Kind of Normal a retelling of Never Quite NormalAfter the Last Great Time War a newly regenerated Doctor comes back to Earth to heal. With his old friends at his side, the Doctor uses the Chameleon Arch to become human in hopes that the break from his misery will help him learn to live again as The Last of the Time Lords. Set in 2003, two years before the Doctor meets Rose Tyler and utters the most fantastic of words, "Run!"This author was extremely moved and inspired by the original work Never Quite Normal by Jessa L'Rynn and Olfactory Ventriloquism when I read it five years ago. It moved me so much that I wished the story went on and on. After careful consideration and waiting for a finished sequel to be written I decided to take it upon myself to finish the story that had been started and arch this adventure into that of the 2005 reboot. I have rewritten this work so that I could hopefully emulate the original authors writing style and the perfection they achieved. This work should be seen as the highest of complements to the original authors as they have inspired another to create.As with everyone else I do not own Doctor Who or it's characters though I am madly in love with them.





	1. Prologue to the Prologue to the Prologe

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Never Quite Normal](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/410175) by Jessa L'Rynn and Olfactory Ventriloquism. 



**Prologue to the Prologue**

Dust and dirt swirled heavily in the air kicking up cyclones in the hot wind that blew through the streets. Squinting into the haze and the acrid smoke that burned his eyes clouding his vision, he pushed his nose into the crook of his raised arm. The thick air had caused his respiratory bypass to kick in making it only necessary to draw breath every few minutes instead of the requisite breath every few seconds but it was still a struggle to get in a clean breath. Stumbling over the piles of rubble that filled the streets, he stopped, taking in the devastating scene before him. The market place had been demolished, the resident housing and businesses that lined the streets had collapsed falling in on each other the over flow clogging the streets with debris. Looking on he kneeled beside a fallen soldier to close his lifeless eyes. The Doctor watched as two battalion leaders conferred before what was left of the market’s main gallery.  

Picking his way down to the street the Doctor approached and was met by salutes from the commanders as well as a request for orders as to how the two companies should proceed. He paused, a role of leadership is not what he had wanted when he had joined the war but it was the duty that had been thrust upon him. Giving the order to search the ruins of the gallery before them and shrugging off the salutes the soldiers issued in compliance, he watched as his order spread through the chain of command. The Doctor was not a man to be saluted to, he had been forced into this war in answer to the call of need from his planet. When it had become apparent he could run no longer from the war that was laying waste to his corner of the universe, he had chosen the mantle of warrior for himself, unwilling to have the decision thrust upon him by another.

Adjusting the too big helmet he had borrowed from a fallen soldier during the attack, he and four squadies separated from the battalions as they began combing through the rubble for survivors and started around the collapsed side of the gallery on their own. Though this was a mission of mercy, to collect the injured and count the dead, the soldiers proceeded cautiously, weapons drawn and at the ready they had formed a perimeter around the Doctor, who still refused to carry a weapon of his own. Reports of Daleks being sighted on the ground, waiting in the shadows to kill or imprison the unsuspecting filled the helmets’ communication links causing their careful apprehension. Skirting the edges of the fallen building they stopped to survey the sight before them; the devastation stretched as far as the eye could see. The glimmer of fire reflecting on glass beyond the twisted metal of the galleries infrastructure beckoned to the Doctor pulling him toward a wall that was balanced precariously against a sheet of jagged glass from the citadel's dome.

Halting the soldiers, the Doctor stood motionless in the uneasy quiet, closing his eyes, he reached out with his mind, searching for life and was rewarded with a moan nearby. Carefully, he picked his way over the broken bricks and twisted metal nearing the base of the glass shard.

There, a soldier lay, coming back to consciousness, pain, and screaming reality. As quickly and as carefully as he could, the Doctor climbed up the pile of wreckage and over to the soldier, the scent of their blood heavy in his nostrils.  Accessing the scene before him, he instantly sprang into action, copious amounts of blood spurted from the woman’s thigh and sprayed wetly against the glass that gouged into her leg, an artery had surely been severed, and she lay trapped and bleeding under the weight of the glass.

“I’ve got you.” he said as he began to pull carefully at her armor to gain better access to her wound. His hands were soon covered, so slick in her blood, that he could barely grip the blaster proof plating he was trying to pull away

“Aaah!” she screamed in agony. “Help me, Doctor!” Her hands scrabbled weakly at his own and at her leg reaching out to help. Pausing to remove his helmet he finally looked into the face of the fallen soldier and recognized the voice if not immediately the face of the Rani. The Doctor bellowed for a medic before returning to his fallen comrade, his troops took up places around the glass and began the tenuous task of trying to free her. It was a delicate and dangerous duty trying to shift the shard without causing her more injury, the its serrated edge had torn through her armor biting into her tender flesh and was braced precariously against a brick wall seconds away from falling and slicing her cleanly in half. Needless to say, the soldiers moved as quickly and as carefully as they possibly could.

After the sky trenches, deep within Gallifrey’s atmosphere, had been breached by a small Dalek detachment mere hours ago, the dome of the citadel had been broken by a barrage of Sontaran bombs following closely behind the Dalek assault. The hired muscle of the Dalek’s, had turned tail and run, following their predecessors’ hasty retreat after the assault. The maneuver was clearly part of a larger stratagem as the battle hungry Sontarans are known for their refusal to yield and the merciless cyborg Daleks live only to exterminate those that do not relinquish to their conformity.

The hyper-pressurized glass of the dome, had fallen down on Arcadia, in great jagged sheets taking down whole blocks of the capitol city leaving broken buildings and bodies in its wake. Smaller pieces had rained like bullets upon the Doctor’s adopted platoon, embedding in their armor and slicing neatly through their exposed skin. It must have been the Rani’s troop, his men had come upon and were working with to clear out the buildings that had been destroyed.

“Aaah!” she screamed again clutching at his hands as the Doctor finally pulled free the armored plating and exposed her wound to the filthy night air.

“You’ll be just fine.  We’ll get you out of here.” the Doctor consoled. “I’m going to apply pressure to try and stop the bleeding.  Just try and relax, focus on healing and knitting yourself back together.” He hovered over the top of her leg briefly aligning his hands to cover the most area of her thigh just above the laceration and then pushed down with all of his weight behind it. Her shriek split the night and would stay with him always along with the feel of her blood spilling out hot and thick on his hands in gushes as her hearts raced in panic and pain.

“Don’t you regenerate on me, Rani.” He ordered before bellowing, “Medic!” once again. Looking down at his hands he could see pale lavender sparks of energy starting to course along the edges of the gaping wound beginning to repair the damage. “Atta girl, Rani. You’ll get through this yet.”

Weakly she tugged at the Doctor’s trousers to get his attention and he looked over his shoulder at the woman lying prone beside him. She looked different then he remembered, having regenerated since the last he had seen her two weeks ago, gone was the tousled curly brown hair and wildly defiant green eyes of her previous incarnation. They had been replaced with jet-black hair plaited to encircle her head like a halo and dark, hard, almond shaped eyes, she looked every bit the soldier she had become. The Rani had lost her helmet in the tumble and her head was propped and pillowed on the broken bricks of the building that had nearly killed her.

“Doctor you’ve got to do it now.”

He shook his head in disapproval knowing instantly what she was referring to. It wasn’t going to happen, it couldn't happen, how could he follow through with Romana’s last plan. How could this, be the end of their existence.

“You promised, Doctor. You took an oath, we all did.” Gone was the lyrical cadence of their native tongue as she whispered to him conspiratorially in a language only they would both understood, The Queen’s English of the planet Earth.

“At this very moment, the security protocols and systems that guard The Moment are breaking down . . . just as Romana had foretold. The sky trenches have been breached and the air will soon be full of Daleks, hell bent on the extermination of us all. Arcadia is falling . . . you must do what you swore to do. What we all swore to do. ” she panted with pain and effort.  “The Daleks must not succeed in taking Gallifrey. Those over grown pepper-pots will destroy the universe in the name of Davros, just to get their bleeding, plumber’s helpers on our tech. They must not take the Hall of the Time Lords.”

Before he could respond, before he could draw a breath to speak, the glass the soldiers were trying to cautiously remove shifted suddenly and the soldier closest to the Rani had to quickly shuffle his feet sliding in the rubble to compensate for the added weight and momentum coming toward him. He kicked the Rani’s shoulder causing her head to roll to the side slipping off of the wreckage and exposing the dark red puddle of blood that pooled where the corner of a brick had punctured the base of her skull. Instantly, the lavender sparks disappeared from around the Doctor’s hands and the wound they still covered.

“Rani, no.” He cried turning himself to face her leaving go of her leg and taking up her hand as she mumbled.

“The Moment . . . you must seize the moment. The Moment will stop it. Doctor . . . please. You must do it.” The Rani smiled faintly before asking, “Are you afraid Doctor? Are you afraid of the bad wolf? The . . . Bad . . . Wolf.”

The Doctor squeezed her hand and sat helplessly watching the Rani’s life slip away as the medic finally arrived climbing up the wreckage to them but it was already too late.

 _“Burning the ground I break from the crowd, I'm on the hunt-down after you. I smell like I sound, I'm lost and I'm found, and I'm hungry like the wolf.”_ She mumbled the Earth tune to him softly, nonsensically as she took her last breath and her body let go, life slipping away.

Another one gone he thought, a tear slipped down his wrinkled dirty cheek and into his grizzled whiskers. He’d lost so many, both friend and foe, since the war had begun more than a millennia ago. The Rani was right, he’d made an oath, he had promised Romana, for Rassilon’s sake, that he wouldn’t let their world fall to the Daleks. It was up to him now, to destroy them, to destroy all of them, and there was no going back.

With a gentle squeeze the Doctor set her lifeless hand on her chest, getting to his feet he looked down at his hands. They were caked in her blood and dirt, wiping his hands on his trousers he tried to remember where he had left his TARDIS, the time to act was now he had to get to the Hall of the Time Lords, to The Moment. Sliding in the rubble he glanced again at his hands and saw they were still covered in blood, fresh blood, and so he wiped at them again and again each time they came away from his body they were covered in more and more blood until it poured out his hands dripping from his fingertips. Panic ceased him and he began to scream as he looked down at himself covered head to foot in thick, burgundy blood. He looked up casting his eyes about looking for help, but there was no help to be found, only bodies heaped and piled around him. His soldiers and medic lay along with the Rani, dead and broken at his feet. Men, both civilian and soldier and women of the same, lay heaped and piled over the wreckage of the now absolute silence of the fallen city their number growing with every passing second. And children, who died clinging ineffectively to the things they treasured most lay tiny and still in the dust.

He could feel them, inside his mind, pinpricks of light extinguished one by one. Some burned brightly for a moment flaring before the darkness consumed them and others flickered and guttered until the flame of their existence was snuffed out. The Doctor was alone completely and utterly in the devastation of his own making.

“No! Nooo!” Over and over he screamed until his throat was raw and he could scarcely draw breath. Sobbing, begging for mercy, pleading for death to release him from this nightmare, he woke.

**Prologue**

The Doctor had finally made his decision. He had been a walking disaster long enough. The chaos and death that had always seemed to follow him had caught up to him at the Battle of Arcadia, Gallifrey’s Last Stand and he had finally become what his enemies had always believed him to be – the Destroyer of Worlds.

He had tried to kill himself at least six times since his ship, the TARDIS, had opened her doors and threw out this new regenerated body of his onto the back lawns of the Brigadier’s estate on Earth. All his failed attempts at ending his life could be credited to his superior physiology and the newness of his regeneration—it would not allow him to bleed out before he healed, and, its ingenious abilities to reduce most common poisons to a puff of smoke kept him alive while he longed for death. The Lethbridge-Stewarts had earned their part in keeping him alive as well, having taken him in and nursed him back into some semblance of functionality. But the Doctor felt he had risked their hospitality and therefore their lives long enough. It was time to do something, time to try to find a way to forget and learn to live again.

He had considered the Chameleon Arch for a while, and upon the insistence of the TARDIS herself. The technology itself was new and unfamiliar to him but the Arch would essentially separate his Time Lord sensibilities from him to be stored away from his physical form. The High Council had had the program developed as a means of escape should the Daleks cease Gallifrey but the program’s completion had come to late to save anyone. He had even picked out a device to hold himself, a Gallifreyan pocket watch that contained the technology needed to hold his Time Lord essence. But eventually common sense told him that it would probably result in the same nightmares, only without the ability to make sense of them. Making the human version every bit as unstable as he was and possibly even more dangerous. That being said it was the only plan the Doctor could think of that may possibly heal his shattered existence.

The Brigadier, watching the Doctor work the past few weeks, had believed it to be a good sign, because the Doctor working meant the Doctor wasn’t moping or contemplating suicide anymore.  He wasn’t brooding and lost, focused on the War and all the decisions he had made and all the things he had let die because of it. The genocide of his people and, if he was to truly be honest, the Daleks, hung heavily on his soul. His responsibility for their demise was primarily what drove the Doctor and his new title – Last of the Time Lords, to the conclusion that he needed a way to escape the madness in order to heal. Now that his new programing was in place and the Time Lord was as certain as he could be, he bid a tearful farewell to his beloved time ship and went to let his friend in on his plans. After all he would need him for his plan to work.

“You want me to what?” said a startled Brigadier, sitting behind the dark cherry desk in his wood paneled study. The Doctor had found him there not five minutes ago, studying government contracts before he sprung his request upon him.

“Adopt me,” the Doctor requested again, with a grin that anyone who wasn’t the Brigadier would have thought playful and happy. He took a seat in the chair opposite the Brigadier sliding a slim binder across the desk.

“Have you lost your mind?” the Brigadier blurted out without thinking.

“Yes,” replied the Doctor softly. “We both know that. And I can’t heal, can’t even try to get back to normal or even less insane if I don’t do something to make this hell go away for a while. I’m tired of fighting myself and I can’t endure the deafening silence in my head. You can’t understand what that’s like -- to lose the connection to my people, my home – even I couldn’t have imagined it before, and it’s making me worse every single day. I need to get away, somewhere, somehow, so I can pretend the silence is normal. That I didn’t. . . I need to pretend this didn’t happen to me. No, not just pretend . . . believe!”

The Brigadier shook his head in bitter frustration. How had it come down to this? After everything he had seen the Doctor save, rescue, pull out at the last possible minute...how was it that the one thing the Time Lord couldn’t save was himself? He opened the binder the Doctor had given him and began to read it carefully. For a madman, the Doctor seemed to be obsessively meticulous on the inner workings of the program he’d rewritten but he also seemed to have forgotten some of the more basic points of undertaking a new human identity.

“All right,” the Brigadier agreed at last as the Doctor considered him silently, his aching blue eyes pleading with the Brigadier to accept. “Give it to the weekend, take a little more time to decide that this is really what you want to do. We’ll try again with the mirror on Sunday. If it doesn’t work, we’ll go with your plan.”

The Doctor flinched at the Brigadier’s request, but nodded at last. “Of course,” he agreed.

“And the TARDIS?” the Brigadier asked motioning to her through the large windows that faced the back lawns. The beautiful blue box had settled herself under an old weeping willow not two hundred yards from the back-patio terrace. She was in such a spot that she got a fair amount of sunshine but could also weather any storm under the arms of the big tree. In all his years there, the Brigadier hadn’t seen that old willow thrive as much as it had since the TARDIS had materialized there. He could only hope the old blue box was benefitting from her stay as well.

“Doris did say she looked lovely in the back garden,” Joshua said, following the Brigadier’s gaze to his ship. “That’s another reason why I haven’t used the Arch. I’m the last. . . but so is she.” He choked and began to sob. The Doctor stopped speaking coherently for a full five minutes. With his shoulders hunched, curling in on himself, he rocked back and forth on the edge of the doeskin chair, muttering some chiming dirge that sounded like horror set to music.

_“Fire and Screams the Citadel Fell,_

_Drenched in Their Blood, the Last Cloister Bell.”_

The Brigadier came around and placed a hand over the Doctor’s as he gripped the desk before him – his left hand, because he would still lash out if his right was touched, a reaction he had yet to hear the reason behind.

“Focus,” the Brigadier murmured after a moment, in a quiet voice of command. The Doctor’s terrible blue gaze snapped to his face, so alien, so lost, so alone. “I understand. She’ll be safe here. Doris and I’ll watch over her and put a flower bed around her or something.”

“Thank you,” the Doctor choked out. After another moment of rocking, he sat up straight and sighed, his hand wiping at his eyes before scrubbing through his high and tight military haircut. “It’s just,” he paused to clear his throat and pull himself back together.  If this was to work he had to convince the Brigadier as well as himself. “The Arch is just an emergency protocol; the program was full of bloody great holes that I’d noticed after a while and it wouldn’t have helped, it would’ve just delayed the inevitable. Eventually, and far sooner than I’d like, I’d have to come out and I’d still be broken. What I’ve done here is more intensive. Much, much more.”

“I see,” said the Brigadier, not wanting to admit so much that he didn’t, really. The Doctor’s extensive file had a lot more detail than he had seen for a while and it would take him days to assimilate it all. “I’m keeping this,” the Brigadier added. “I think there are some things you’ll want to tweak, though.”

“Tweak?” the Doctor questioned, his brow furrowing deeply.

“For example, you haven’t mentioned your parents. Humans usually have them.”

“Oh.” The Doctor relaxed again. “Right. Erm. How about . . . maybe . . . Sidney and Verity?”

“Fine.” The Brigadier pulled out a legal pad and jotted it down. “And which of them is my sibling?”

“Sibling?” said the Doctor, again quite startled.

“Well, if I’m going to be your Uncle Alistair, which I admit will be hilarious to me, I have to be one of your parents’ brother.”

“My mum?” the Doctor suggested tentatively. “‘Sidney’ doesn’t sound like the sort of name someone would use for a kid whose brother is Alistair Gordon . . .”

“Yes, that’s true. Fine, my late sister Verity’s big–eared brat,” quipped the Brigadier with a smirk, trying to lighten the mood. “And I see you haven’t explained any of your medical abnormalities if you’re to pose as a human. I’ll talk to Dr. Sullivan and see what he can come up with. This bit is good though. The keys,” the Brigadier commented as he continued to read.

“Yes,” The Doctor sighed. “Give me two years as a human if you can. But if you should need me to come back sooner you can use them to call me back. The first key will let me out temporarily, long enough to answer about a half dozen questions. You can’t use it more than once every thirty days, but that should be plenty of time. The second key will bring me back for six to eight hours and can only be used once and, really, it’s to be used only if there’s an unavoidable situation. The third key will bring me back permanently and is only to be used in case of an emergency.”

“Fine, but I insist that the keys also be taught to Sullivan and maybe Benton. I’m an old man, Doctor, and I think it would be a bit dangerous to have you wandering the Earth unable to break your own conditioning if the unthinkable happened.”

The Doctor nodded, slowly regarding his old friend. “But nothing’s gonna happen to you. That’s why I’ve got to leave, so nothing happens to you or Doris. Because if I stay, sooner or later, something will come for me. After all, at the very least you’ve been harboring a fugitive.” He sounded desperate as he said this, a wounded child, hurt beyond fear at the thought of losing anyone else.

The Brigadier nodded sympathetically and continued to scan the binder. “London? You want to move to London?” he asked incredulous, and trying to change the topic.

“Yeah. Familiar with London and it’s a big loud place.  I can lose myself there.”

“All right,” the Brigadier agreed, capping his pen.  He pushed the file out of his way and folded his arms on top of the gleaming desktop. “Last thing, then. You absolutely cannot be John Smith.”

“Why not?” the Doctor huffed.

“You know why not,” said the Brigadier grumpily. “How many times in all your regenerations has UNIT had to pick you up from somewhere because you said you were John Smith and no one believed you?”

The Doctor sighed a slight smile teased briefly at the corner of his lips. The Brigadier couldn’t have been more right. “Have it your way, then. What’s my name Uncle Alistair?”

The Brigadier considered him carefully, took in the narrow shoulders and the injured eyes. And the trembling hands. The Doctor’s hands hadn’t stopped shaking in the last eight weeks that he had been back on Earth. He had the closed stance of a wounded animal unsure whether to cower or attack. “Joshua,” he said at last.

“Joshua?” said the Doctor, and thought about it. He shrugged his leather clad shoulders. “Yeah, all right, Joshua Stewart.”

The Brigadier smiled reassuringly, “Just be glad I didn’t call you Ishmael.”


	2. In the begining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so our story begins. . .
> 
> Again many thanks to the authors of the original work Never Quite Normal.  
> I do not hold any rights or claims to Doctor Who or it's characters.

**Chapter 1**

Three months later...

Joshua reclined in the squeaky wooden chair at his usual table, out of the way of the main action of the dark, smoky pub, but still able to see the telly if he felt so inclined. Not that he ever did.

The pub was filled with the usual crowd of the just-off-work, the disenchanted, and the daft, and since it was Friday night, there was also the weekend set of younger people. He thought he'd heard someone say that dreaded word, “karaoke”, but he wasn't worried. Give him an hour or two and another half-gallon of booze and he would crawl out of the pub, drag himself back to his flat, be noisily sick, and pass out somewhere that John wouldn't realize he'd been dead drunk again when he showed in the morning.

John Benton and Harry Sullivan were his friends. He had served at least one tour of duty with each of them, but Joshua knew they still worked for his uncle; consequently, he tried not to trust them as much as he probably should. He also tried not to feel too guilty when they asked him what he'd been doing. The truth was drowning his problems - or trying to - but what they wanted to hear was how far he'd come in the book he was writing.

He was too busy maintaining his blood alcohol content to do any serious writing, although he supposed that some of the stuff still came out, like 'Kublah Khan' for a stoned Coleridge. It took a lot of work to stay as drunk as Joshua preferred to be. He took his last shot and upended it into his mouth, shuddering at the taste of black licorice, savoring the burn. He never, ever wanted to think clearly again.

Infernal noise split the usual din, and Joshua summoned a waitress to line him up another round of tonight’s drink of choice so he could float away from the cacophony. "Aren't you gonna sing, Josh?" she asked, teasing.

" ‘m not that drunk," he slurred. "Don't think I could get that drunk, me." Which was true. He was accustomed to this vague, detached buzz where the world swirled slightly and stars fluttered every which way across his vision and everything seemed soft and warm. This was as high as he could get. It would have to do: being unable to think clearly, and utterly unwilling to try was exactly what he wanted.

"Ah, well, our loss.” she replied, clearing away his empties onto her tray and wiping up the table between rounds as he preferred.

"Probably," he agreed. "Better bring me extra, if I gotta listen to Rickey the Idiot again."

"Why do you call 'im Rickey, anyway? You know he hates it."

Joshua shrugged, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and waved twenty quid at her.

She took it and went off to get his order.

The noise pollution and Joshua's drinking binge both continued unabated for some time, but just as he was getting ready to stumble in the general direction of the door, the crowd burst into noisy applause. In his haze he considered taking a bow, but realized almost at once that it wasn't for him they were applauding. He gazed blearily at the stage and nodded sagely at no one in particular. So, that girl... what's her name... the pink and yellow one... was going to sing.

He dropped back down in his seat to listen, because she was good. He remembered when he'd first met her shortly after moving to London. She'd been singing with her miserable excuse for a boyfriend's appalling band, on the very same stage she was climbing onto now. After their set, the boyfriend- Jimmy Something, drunk and thinking himself a rockstar -had gotten too rowdy for the local scene. He'd scared the girl to death with his tantrum but she had still tried to calm him down. When she couldn't, that wanker had decided to take out his drunken frustration on her, back handing her across the face and splitting her lip. Joshua had stood up, abruptly sober for the first time in as long as he could remember, and taken matters and the mouthy little sod, into his own hands.

Rose, that was her name, pink and yellow Rose, had been absurdly grateful and had dumped the wanker on the spot. Since then she had proceeded to try her level best to become Joshua's friend. He wasn't a very good friend though, never had been as he remembered, so he went out of his way to make it difficult for her. Besides, she was only nineteen, twenty at best; he was crowding forty and suspected, if he let her, she'd try to set him up with her loud-mouth mum. Now that woman was a piece of work.

 Silence descended on the room when her song started. It was some American number he'd never heard before, gods only knew how she had, but it was strange and pretty and compelling.

He listened to the first verse without much impact, but the chorus-bit, that hurt. An hourglass glued to the table. Nailed to the fuckin' table, actually, and the table welded to the floor, and the floor with a concrete pole driven forty feet deep into the Earth's crust. He had once thought, or believed, that time wasn't like that, not really, but now he knew better. Joshua reached for a shot, finding them all empty, he swore quietly and dug through the pockets of his military issue canvas field jacket for his hip flask.

She started the second verse. He took a swig of the burning liquid and smiled. Wouldn't do to lose the good buzz he had going. Wouldn't do at all.

_"May he turn 21 on the base at Fort Bliss. ‘Just a day,’ he said down to the flask in his fist. ‘Ain't been sober since maybe October of last year.’"_

Fort Bliss is in Texas. He’d actually been there once on assignment, he remembered. Of course it's also a good description for a soldier, drowning himself. He looked up from his own flask at her, blinking blearily through the rocket-fuel fumes of his own breath. He wondered if his blood could be used for a petrol additive yet, and would have considered that seriously but he realized with an abrupt start that her huge brown eyes had locked firmly with his own and seemed to have no intention of releasing them any time soon.

_"Here in town you can tell he's been down for a while but, my God, it's so beautiful when the boy smiles. Wanna hold him, maybe I'll just sing about it."_

All right, he thought. That's odd. The alcohol started to rip through his bloodstream encouraged, apparently, by his sudden desire to see if what was going on would make more sense if he was sober.

The chorus again. “ _No one can find the rewind button, boys..."_ Heaven help him, but even having the fuckin’ rewind button couldn't always save you.

She kept singing and her gorgeous eyes never, not even once, left his face. He couldn't look away, even as the fog he'd poured so much good liquor into maintaining burned off, leaving him sitting there clear-eyed, sweating, and shaking.

_"These mistakes you make, you'll just make them again, if you only try turning around..."_

Rickey the Idiot flung himself into the chair across from Joshua and glowered at him. "I hate you," Rickey informed him.

"Mutual, I'm sure," Joshua replied, biting off the words coldly in his clipped Northern accent.  He leaned to the right a bit to see around the intruder, never once taking his eyes from Rose; not even when she left the stage and was swallowed by the congratulating crowd.

"I waited for her to get over Jimmy. Been trying for her since I was fifteen. You're old enough to be her father, mate." Rickey spat at him.

"Probably," he agreed, not rising to the young man’s challenge. "You're old enough for your wants not to hurt you, so what's the problem?"

"You are," said Rickey the Idiot, belligerently.

"Look," said Joshua, cutting the boy off before he could try to start anything that resembled a fight, "you saw what happened to the last stupid ape who picked a fight in my vicinity. I know you're an idiot, Rickey, but try to restrain your chest-thumping for when there's someone around you can impress."

"The name's Mickey," the boy corrected, coldly.

"It's Rickey," Joshua replied.

"I think I know my own name."

"Good job, Rickey, not as big an idiot as I thought." He got up from the table and left the pub, knowing full well he had better things to do with his rare sobriety than argue nonsense with a drunken git about a girl he only talked to when he couldn't avoid her.

Not many people knew it, but Joshua Stewart was a poet. He'd picked that up from his mother, he supposed. He had only one vague memory of her, but even in his dreams he could never see her face. She always wore blue, though, and he remembered that she sang more than she ever spoke, sang all the time. But the only words, spoken or sung, that he could remember were, “I'm always with you. Always." Strange, really, because when she and his father died, even the photographs of them had been destroyed, burned along with their home and their bodies.

Even Uncle Alistair was only able to call up vague memories of his older sister - she had been gone from his life long before Joshua was born, so long in fact that Joshua was almost eighteen before Uncle Alistair had known he existed and rescued him from the orphanage where he'd spent most of his early life, untouched and unloved. Of his father, neither of them knew anything.

The volume of poetry he was working on was meant to be a master work, but he wasn't sure how it was going as he'd been drunk through most of it. Still, he had two tentative titles for it, one of which would definitely go on it when it was published. Provided he ever finished it.

He got up early that morning before John was expected to come by for their weekend jog and made a pot of strong coffee. Beaker in hand he returned to the lounge where he had been writing the night before. Picking up the spiral notebook from the seat of his club chair he settled in and began going through his notes. He'd already decided that four of the finished poems were definitely crap and one of them was heart-breakingly beautiful, but he didn't get any farther because the buzzer sounded from the door.

He sighed as he got up to answer it. Maybe it was a sales person. He hated those. Or a religious type - he played with those like a cat toys with a mouse. Maybe John was early, or Harry had decided to pop by. Maybe it was Rickey the Idiot, come to finish his not-credible threat in the clear light of day.

Or, he thought as he peered through the peephole, to see golden hair and bright amber eyes, maybe it was Rose. He sighed again and opened the door to let her in.


	3. An unexpected visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose makes a bold move. . . maybe
> 
> Again many thanks to the authors of the original work Never Quite Normal.  
> I do not hold any rights to Doctor Who or its characters.

**Chapter 2**

Rose looked around with amused fascination at the bachelor's clutter of Joshua's flat. Didn’t seem to matter the age of the man or not, the state of the flat was much the same as Mickey’s and his flatmates’. Except where theirs was filled with take away containers and video game cases and controllers, Joshua’s place was a sea of books, tea mugs, and papers.

"Cream?" he called from the little kitchen off the dining nook, and she grinned.

"Ta," she agreed.

"Funny word, that," he said as he brought in two mugs.

"Looks like you'd know," she said blandly, moving the large stack of thesaurus, book of synonyms, dictionary, and lap top off of the couch cushions so she could sit down. She picked up the notebook he had been looking at and stared blankly at the page for a moment. "What language is this?" she asked.

He grinned, that gorgeous smile that lit up his blue eyes like starlight, and handed her the tea. "My handwritin’," he confessed. "Got the world's worst penmanship, me," he added and sat down next to her, relaxing back against the navy-blue cushions. "Look it up, there in the dictionary, under 'illegible' - it says 'see handwritin’ of Joshua Stewart.'"

Rose grinned back. "Sure you're not a doctor, then?" she asked cheerfully and sipped at her tea. God, it was perfect, better than her mum's, which was saying something.

He frowned at her for a moment and stiffened at her comment.  He sipped at his own tea and regained his composure. "I am, actually," he admitted, gesturing nonchalantly with his beaker at the wall across the flat. "PhDs in literature and linguistics. Nothing major."

"Wow, really?” Rose enthused, thoroughly impressed.  “How old are you, Joshua?" she teased.

It took him several minutes and a bracing gulp from his beaker to decide to answer that, apparently. "Thirty-eight. And you're not setting me up with your mum, so don't even think it." He leveled at her utterly serious.

"Eeew," she said, and her body gave an involuntary shiver. "God, no. You're about her same age, actually, but... just, no." She took rather a large swallow of the tea, thinking she might want to wash that idea away altogether and ran her hand over her hair, nervously smoothing a lock into place behind her ear.

"Oh, thank God," he said laughing, and sounding totally relieved. "I thought that's what you were after - and Jackie Tyler is just not my type."

She thought for a second about asking what his type was, but was too nervous to phrase the question. She resorted to joking instead. "God, you're thick," she said with a smile. "Mickey said he got in an argument with you?" she said trying to change the subject to something that would stop the flutter of butterflies in her stomach.

"Exactly, he argued with me. Dunno what you see in Rickey-boy, anyway." Joshua shook his head as he tapped his empty beaker against his thigh.

"Dunno why you call him Rickey," she replied, setting her now empty mug down on the coffee table with a sigh of real pleasure.

He shrugged. "It suits him."

"S'funny," she said. "'Cuz his name is Michael Richard. So, you could call him Mickey or Rickey, but we've always called him Mickey. As to what I see in him... well, we were kids together is all. He’s a’right but he's not what I really want." She sighed as he overlooked that and jumped up to remove their tea things back to the kitchen. Jumpy, that Joshua. She was beginning to think she was going to have to knock him over the head just to get him to stop and look at her.

Rose had known for a long time that she preferred older blokes, but it wasn't 'til Joshua had dealt with the Jimmy Stone problem so effectively that she realized how much older she preferred them. Jimmy'd been 25 when they started going out. Rose, at an impressionable and stupid seventeen, had thought he was brilliant. She’d dropped out of school to move in with him and everything. She had wasted eighteen months of her life on the lager lout with more lost than gained during her time with him. She turned nineteen just last week and it had been six months since she had broken up with the wanker, but she'd already set her heart on a new bloke, the one who was her knight in - well - canvas armor.

He was never anywhere without that jacket after all, so you might as well call it his armor. Even now, in his own home he wore it and today it held the rumpled appearance of being slept in. That olive drab jacket, with the name Stewart sewn over his left breast and the silver beaded chain often peeking out of his collar.  The chain leading to an outline of dog tags on his chest when his shirt was a bit snug, suggesting a life as a soldier. But at a guess, that was probably something he didn't want to think about, let alone talk about.

She got up from her seat and meandered around the lounge aimlessly, taking a look at the degrees on the wall, glancing at the telly, and then the two snaps in their frames on a shelf above it. One was of Joshua, his light brown hair not quite shaggy and actually combed into place, his beard shorter and neatly trimmed. He posed with a handsome couple who looked to be in their sixties. The other snap also of him with a couple of older, familiar looking blokes, all three of them laughing.

She smiled. "My God, it’s so beautiful, when the boy smiles," she sang softly to herself.

Joshua came up behind her, towering over her, but friendly, a tentative smile on his fascinating face. "D'you like chocolate?" he asked softly, kindly.

"Girl," she said with a flippant wave, trying to recover from the butterflies that tumbled over themselves from just being so near to him. Again, her hand drifted up to fuss at her hair and just as quickly she admonished herself for acting like a child and stuffed her hands in the pockets of her hoodie.

"Ah yes, human females always like chocolate." That sounded so strange and yet so right coming out of his mouth like that. "Aunt Doris baked me a chocolate cake. Want some?"

She grinned up at him. "Yes, please."

"Fantastic," he said and loped off to fetch it.

She plunked back down on the sofa and picked up the notebook. Concentrating, she managed to, very slowly, make some sense of his handwriting. She was reading, apparently, a lullaby.

"Can I ask you a personal question?" she ventured when he returned handing her a napkin and fork before presenting her with a slice of the most delicious looking cake she had seen in a while.

"I guess," he agreed, instantly guarded. he took his seat in the dark leather club chair next to the sofa. "Don't promise to answer, though."

"I haven't seen you sober before. How come?" Rose blushed, not believing she had actually asked that.

He snorted, relaxing a little. "Thought I had a better chance to figure out what you were about if I was sober. Doesn't seem to be helping, actually." He shrugged. "Still, can always get drunk again, I s'pose. But John's coming over later, and I'd like to keep him guessing."

She forked a bit of cake into her mouth, careful not to drop crumbs onto the notebook she was reading and sighed. It was really good cake. "John's one of your mates?"

"Yeah, you met him. He and Harry both came down the pub with me week before last."

"Oh, right. He's the built one." Rose blushed again. Was she going to spend this entire visit with her feet in her mouth?

Joshua laughed, breaking Rose’s tension. "So, he's built, is he?"

She grinned at him. "Yeah, and Harry's the pretty one. Never seen a bloke pay that much attention to his hair. Even his mustache was perfect."

"Well, I don't anyway," he agreed, running his free hand up through his tawny, shaggy hair letting it fall back into his eyes. "So, which one am I?"

She blushed a third time and nibbled at the cake, taking her time, trying to figure out how to explain without risking him chasing her out of his flat. Finally, when she couldn't stand another minute of those deep, blue eyes smoldering into her, she turned and smiled at him softly. "You, Joshua, are dead sexy."

He blinked, obviously startled. "Me?" he demanded. "But..."

"No, seriously, mate. It's when you smile." She sighed. "Don't worry, I'm not gonna hit on you or anything." Much, she didn't add.

He shook his head in disbelief. A sarcastic remark came to mind, ready to play-off what Rose had just said, but when he looked at her he could tell that her assertion wasn’t just a funny quip to make him laugh. "Don't think anyone's called me sexy before," he offered tentatively instead.

She smiled and finished her cake. "Just haven't had the nerve s'all, I'm sure."

He just sat there, looking quite as blank as if she had given into her premonition and walloped him a good one, so she went back to the notebook and read it over. After a few minutes, she had the rhythm of the poem and a snatch of music that would suit it floated into her head. So, she hummed it while Joshua cleaned away the plates again and then pottered around his own living room, looking baffled.  He ended up staring, but possibly not seeing anything, out of his front window.

When she was sure she had the proper cadence, she sang the little verse aloud, very softly. Yeah, that was a lullaby. And pretty with the right words.

He rounded on her from his spot  at the window, his eyes  wide with disbelief. "What... where..." He shook his head. "That tune, how'd you come up with it?"

"Dunno," she said. "Just suited."

"It does," he agreed coming to life again. "I was about to bin that one, but... with the tune..."

She shrugged while he disappeared down the hall and into another part of the flat. She thought it might be his bedroom but she couldn’t see from her spot on the couch.

He came back a few minutes later with a stubby pencil and some paper he was already jotting marks on. "All right," he said, "sing it through."

"What, seriously?"

"Yeah, if you don't mind." He said, flashing her an encouraging smile.

"No, I don't mind." She was shaking, she realized, suddenly nervous under Joshua’s scrutiny. He was bouncing with excitement, caught up in this moment of creative expression, and his hand flew over the paper, a mile a minute. But he still found time to watch her with those painfully vivid eyes. Drawing a deep breath, she started to sing.

"Fantastic," he breathed when she was finished, and those eyes lit on her, glowing, brilliant, so alive. He wrote a few more lines and then held the paper out to her.

She took it and stared at it in bald shock. There in her hand was the freshly minted sheet music to the song she had just sung. Across the top in a careful, sprawling script, was written, "Susan's Lullaby." Underneath in neat block letters, he had written "Music by Rose Tyler, Lyrics by Joshua Stewart."

She grinned, dizzy with sheer delight and shock. "Oh, wow," she breathed. "Just... wow."

"Fantastic?" he asked softly.

"Oh, God yes," she agreed and, impulsively, threw her arms around him.

He leaned into her hug, put his arms around her for the briefest moment before he drew away. "Thank you," he said softly. But his eyes now looked so distant and hurt, the door to them that had been thrown wide open seconds ago, had locked itself down, tight.

"I... sure." She put a hand on his arm. "Joshua?"

"I need a drink," he murmured.  His mood had suddenly done an about face and he turned toward the kitchen letting her hand fall away. "You want anything?"

"No, I... I should probably go, since you're expecting friends, I guess..."

He swore colorfully and fluently as he glanced down at the watch on his wrist. Rose had hardly ever heard the like on the Powell Estates where she grew up before. One of her mum's boyfriends, “Uncle Albie” had sworn like that, but he was a sailor. Of course, Joshua was more than likely a soldier, so it made sense. "What?" she asked slightly stunned.

"Don't have time to get properly shit-faced if John's coming over. Days like this, I wish I had a time machine."

"Yeah... no," she said, suddenly totally annoyed. "You want a time machine, just to go back and get pissed?"

He folded his arms across his chest, looking down at her sternly, his blue eyes now hard and cold in his glowering face. "S'that a problem?"

"Not really," she said, "since you haven't got one." She sighed. "Thanks for taking time with me, Joshua. I'll see you later. Down the pub, probably. If you even remember my name."

And on that note, she set the sheet music down, turned away from him and let herself out, feeling those eyes burning into her even after she had closed the flat door between them. She walked to the end of the hall, down the stairs and out the front door before she leaned up against the wall, shaking.

She knew she had no right to berate him, no claim to him of any kind. But it was annoying as hell and a complete waste, really. She would have liked to spend some time with him like the too brief she just had, get to know the real him when he was doing something other than drowning himself, and really, she'd told him what she wanted last night when she sang to him. If he couldn't figure it out, if he couldn't even stay sober long enough to try to figure it out, what was she supposed to do? Wait 'til he was completely pissed again and then jump him? That'd never work... well, it would probably work, but it would never get her what she really wanted, which was behind those eyes, behind that smile, to find out why that heart was broken so badly. She couldn't help it. Her friends told her all her life that she spent too much time picking up strays, but all she really wanted was to help.

The hell with it, Rose thought, pulling out her mobile. He was old enough to be her father and he didn't need her or want her in any way. Besides, there was always Mickey.

* * *

 

“Stupid, stubborn, naïve human child.” Joshua muttered angrily to himself and shoved the lager into the back of the ice box. He dragged out the milk instead, sniffed at it, and angrily tossed it in the sink. His milk never used to go off, he remembered that vaguely.

Fuck it. Fuck London, fuck sobriety, and fuck her, the stupid little bleach-blonde ape. Who did she think she was, anyway? If she'd seen half the shit he had, she'd never come out of her stupid little Council flat again. She'd stay with her psychopathic mummy, cuddle up to Rickey the Idiot, and live off beans on toast for the rest of her life.

He pulled out the lager again, popped the tab, and chugged it. Or tried to. No more than a mouth full, and he spit it out in complete revulsion.

Fantastic, he thought sarcastically as he poured it down the drain. The little brat was getting into his head. Slamming the can into the garbage he snatched up the bin liner and returned to the lounge to continue cleaning up. That girl had him so fired up, so angry, that he had the mess cleared in just a few minutes. He very nearly threw the song they had written away but with a snort of derision he tossed it back on the coffee table. It was just too good to let go of. 

* * *

 

They jogged along the pavement, pace steady and strong, hearts accelerated, breath short and quick. John was chattering away about this and that, currently complaining, as usual, that Joshua never took off his jacket. Joshua had, after all, conceded to John’s usual harassment on proper workout attire and had traded his dark denim and steel toed boots for track pants and trainers for their runs, but he would be damned to give in completely.

"Well, you gotta admit it's better than that scarf I used to wear," Joshua reminded him, hoping to stop this line of conversation. He checked his footing as they turned away from the sidewalk and into a little park not far from Jericho Street Middle School.

"You remember that?" John asked, sounding winded and surprised.

"How could I forget? That was stupid, it was six foot long and I stepped on it all the constantly. It’s a wonder I didn’t hang myself,” he jabbed lightly but silently regarded John.  Joshua never had trouble with his breathing but John was older, so he could be forgiven. Although Joshua doubted Uncle Alistair would be particularly impressed. Hell, Uncle Alistair could probably still run circles around John and Harry both. Or over them, if he felt the need.  “C'mon, let's run through the kiddie area, get our hearts really pumping - well, heart in your case." Joshua teased. The run was doing its job, increasing endorphins and lifting his mood.

"You know, you never used to bandy that about."

"What difference does it make?" Joshua asked. "Harry can tell you. I'm a chimera. Means I'm technically two people."

"You have absolutely no idea how little trouble I have believing that," said John with a snort, and turned to follow him. "Nice to see you in a good mood," he added.

"Well, I blew something up this morning and I feel better now." Joshua deadpanned.

"Blew something up... God damn... Joshua, the Brigadier asked you not to do that."

"He asked me not to get caught, John, that's different. Besides, I had all that lager and I thought I'd get rid of it. One of the cans flew 90 feet. Pretty impressive."

"You're still mad, you know that?" John chuckled.

"All my life."

"Don't I know it," John agreed.

They were silent for some moments as they jogged on, maintaining their pace of the last 10k when they came out into the little clearing where the swings, slides and other kids' stuff was set in concrete. Joshua blinked in surprise to see Rose there, again with Rickey the Idiot. He was chattering away at her but she looked bored out of her skull. She had even walked away from him and leaned up against the merry-go-round, rocking back and forth. She hadn’t noticed that he and John were approaching.

He could never have said, if anyone asked him, why he did it. It just felt right, extremely right, perfect. He broke away from John and ran up to her, blue eyes flashing, grinning like a loon, and caught her eye.

She blinked at him in shock and surprise and he caught her hand, shifting his around it just so, and said one word. Just one: "Run!"

Laughing a merry, high-pitched twinkle, she took off after him, her hand still caught tight in his. By the time they'd crossed the path she was level with him, and he caught her face, beaming, out of the corner of his eye.

It occurred to him that he hadn't seen anything quite so beautiful in ages.


	4. Analysis and reconnoitering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Guardians of Time encounter girl trouble. Not at all what they expected.
> 
> Again many thanks to the authors of the original work Never Quite Normal.  
> I do not hold any rights or claims to Doctor Who or it's characters.

**Chapter 3**

"I wouldn't have believed it, sir, if I hadn't witnessed it myself," John attested the day after his run with Joshua. "I promise you that this is no prank." Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart's eyes relaxed somewhat from the suspiciously narrowed slits.

"Run?" He asked remaining uncertain of John’s report.

"Run," John confirmed.  He leaned to the side in the doe skin leather chair opposite the Brigadier’s large desk to fish about in his trouser pocket. Retrieving his mobile, he fiddled with a few buttons. "I'll give him this," he continued with a chuckle, showing the screen which displayed a hastily captured image of Joshua and a grinning blonde running past, "He has good taste."

Harry stood to lean across the desk and took John’s mobile to view the photo as well. Taking in the image he handed the phone back to John and took his seat again. "What does this mean? Is this the Doctor or Joshua?"

"I thought we'd decided to stop trying differentiate between the two," prompted the Brigadier.

"Well, the Doctor does have a habit of picking up strays." Benton reminded them.

"Yes, but he thinks he’s human. And she’s such a pretty girl…" Harry floundered, it seemed unlikely for him to complete the sentence in any intelligible fashion, so John did instead.

"Are you saying that you think Joshua may be involved with her? I'm not sure that's possible.” John tried to calm the nervous surgeon. “What Joshua might do on his own can't be entirely known, but enough of the Doctor is in there to modify his behavior.  You know better than I do, Harry, the Doctor has never allowed intimacy with his companions. At least, not between his companions and himself…what they did with each other was their own business."

“On the contrary,” said Harry shaking his head, immediately jumping on John’s comment. “I can only speak of what I have witnessed and though he definitely gave the impression of disinterest in intimacy between himself and his companions, it cannot be confirmed that it is true. Besides, his disinterest certainly didn’t stop him from being pursued by them. In fact, I can attest that this lack of interest may have added fuel to the fire instead of smothering the flames.”

"I don't suppose you've learned anything about her…a name, perhaps?" The Brigadier returned to the matter at hand with his usual efficiency.

John flashed a triumphant smile and flourished a page of sheet music before he slid it across the desk to the Brigadier. “Nicked it from the coffee table when the tosser wouldn’t tell me her name. Here I sat on the stoop outside his flat for forty minutes before he came strolling up with a smile on his face. So, I asked him who the girl was and he just grinned at me and asked, ‘What girl?’. John’s triumph morphed into amused annoyance.  “He wouldn’t even acknowledge the whole thing even happened and when I pressed him for a name he turned into a right arse and told me If I kept pestering him I could leave.”

“Now that seems more like Joshua than the Doctor to me.” said the Brigadier. “You know how he gets if he thinks we’re poking our noses into his business.” Benton and Sullivan voiced their agreement as the Brigadier turned his attention to the paper before him.  "'Susan's Lullaby'" the Brigadier read aloud. "Music by…Rose Tyler." His eyes met John's and then Harry's. "It seems quite the event has taken place."

"The plain truth," Harry philosophized, "is that it's still the Doctor and, like always, we don't know what he will do next."

"He remembers more than he should," John interjected. "But never about who he is! 'Susan's Lullaby' for Christ's sake! And the other day he remembered that god-awful scarf of his."

"Maybe…maybe that means that the parts of his psyche that deal with those bits of information have healed enough to become operable again," Harry hypothesized. He had explained to the pair of them in the past that psychology was not his forte, and certainly not the psychology of a wreck of an alien, but he'd had to admit that he was the most - possibly the only - physician qualified in any way to deal with the Doctor, even a little. Harry hated being out of his depth, that was always true, but the Brigadier found that Sullivan's best work occurred under these circumstances, like it or not.

"Or maybe it means that this was a damn foolish idea in the first place, and that it's going to fall down around our ears!" John retorted.

The Brigadier thought of letting loose some sharp command that would silence the two men instantly from years of Pavlovian conditioning to follow his orders, but he felt it best to let them get their misgivings off their chests. It had been six weeks of living, basically, on high alert. He had Doris to air his misgivings and frustrations to but Benton and Sullivan needed him in the same way. He sat mutely, and let the argument wash over him.

None of them could have known, not even the Doctor, with all his reprogramming of the Chameleon Arch and his best laid plans, couldn’t have predicted what a wreck of a human Joshua would be. Within a few weeks, the nightmares he had been trying desperately to escape came back in full force. And then the drinking began. At first it had been on the sly; the Brigadier hadn’t really noticed the liquor in his bar and in his cabinet going down, but it quickly escalated and it became a commonality that Joshua was either hung over, sick as a dog, or passed out dead drunk somewhere on the estate. The Brigadier hadn’t wanted to let him move out and away from his careful watch, to move him to London like he had agreed to in the beginning, but the Brigadier was a man of his word. He had hoped that Joshua would eventually climb his way out of the abyss that he had jumped into with both feet.

Every week, these three guardians of Time met at the Brigadier's house and compared notes. Since they saw Joshua at different times and in different settings it was important that they coordinate their information. It was almost always Lethbridge-Stewart who bailed him out of jail for public intoxication, for instance, and Benton was usually the one able to get Joshua out of his flat for exercise of some sort, whether it was a run or a trip to John’s gym. Harry provided the last piece of the trinity by operating as Joshua’s physician as well as providing intellectual stimulation. He tried to persuade Joshua into interaction with the world -- providing him invitations to cultural events that he wouldn’t attend, but Harry found that Joshua could regularly be cajoled into at least going to dinner with him once a week. The three also kept an even closer eye on the goings-on in the world, careful of anything that may prove catastrophic and Doctor-requiring. The Brigadier’s work within UNIT as well as John’s continued contract work for the organization kept them up to speed.

Each week it had seemed as if some new occurrence in Joshua's life might tip the precariously balanced scales of his existence and destroy the whole plan. John's personal intelligence this week was enough to make their previous panics seem like mid-afternoon naps. All three left the meeting unsatisfied after hours of debate because there could be no satisfactory solution to this.

After Benton and Sullivan had left for the afternoon, the Brigadier secluded himself on a bench in the garden Doris had planted around the TARDIS. From there he stared at the cobalt blue box, bright in the sunshine, and willed her to give him an answer to their problem. If she had anything to tell him he couldn’t distinguish it, but just sitting in her presence calmed him, much like her inaudible hum seemed to agree with the plants which were draped and spread around her. He had to confess that he hadn’t a clue what to do. Or rather, he didn't know what to think of the situation this new young lady brought about.

Had this been a whim, a distraction to them all, Joshua included or could the Doctor in love? The idea was almost laughable, but not because he was unlikely to love. No, the Brigadier knew that the Doctor had almost too much love to give. However, the Doctor had always been afraid of losing those he loved, and so refused to allow himself to become too close.

He was a hard man to love. He always had been. The Brigadier had encountered this fact countless times, and that was during the course of their filial relationship. Yes, the Doctor was more than difficult enough to love as a brother. Even now, the lot of them were putting themselves out over their love of the Time Lord and his well-being. Romantic love for the Doctor and Joshua must be nearly impossible thought the Brigadier but then again, he wasn't female. His own Doris was proof enough that women would put up with the most extraordinary things for the men they loved. Could the Doctor permit a courtship? Would he?

Lethbridge-Stewart thought back to the photograph Benton had shown them of an attractive young woman running hand in hand with Joshua, mirth sparkling in her eyes and racing along her smile. Since the Doctor did have such a great capacity for love, no matter how much of him may be hidden at the moment, the Brigadier knew that this girl must have an equally caring spirit. That was an aspect of her which could only help the Doctor, but only if he let himself be healed. Since the War, the Doctor seemed far too afraid for that to happen. Whether he was afraid of being too broken again, or convinced of already being beyond repair, the Brigadier didn't pretend to know.

Inclined to believe that just the act of being in love would be good for the Doctor, the Brigadier tried to chase away forebodings of the future, in vain. He worried that the pain of losing this girl, when she found out the truth about him, might cause more damage than she had healed. The idea that she wouldn't reject him never crossed the Brigadier's mind. He had seen it happen far too often at UNIT, had lived it himself..

Her countenance screamed that her innocence had never been tainted by the knowledge of what was out there, and what was so frequently sacrificed to keep it from getting in. There was no doubt that anyone so obviously oblivious would be helpless in her effort to stay when she learned what the Doctor was. He had lost everything, and Lethbridge-Stewart was desperate for the universe to give the Doctor something back, but not if it was only a temporary reprieve. The Doctor couldn't stand another loss. The Brigadier sighed. Perhaps a bit of reconnoitering was in order, find out who this Rose Tyler really was.

Alistair happened to know that his nephew would be absent from his favorite pub tonight. He had, after all, arranged it that Joshua would be otherwise occupied with Harry, allowing him a chance to get a feel for his nephew's life and, with any luck, see this girl.

* * *

The Brigadier slipped in unnoticed and chose a table that was out of the way but with a perfect view of the whole pub. He got a few surprised glances from the patrons, but no one challenged his choice. Joshua was stuck having dinner with Harry tonight and vice versa. They had made it impossible for Joshua to break their plans and so he wouldn't be able to make it to the pub till near on midnight, if Harry played his cards right, and the Brigadier planned to be long gone by then if all went well.

A waitress strode up, pad in hand, and asked for his order. Right before turning away, she gave him a kind smile. "Look, fair's fair, a’right? There's a bloke who comes in here, every night, regular-like. He'll not be happy to find you in his seat. Ex-army, or something, he is, with a temper to boot and I'd hate to see you roughed up. Why don't you find another seat, and I'll bring you your drink, eh?"

The Brigadier shook his head. The odds that he would choose Joshua's table were minimal, but there he was, being cautioned away. The old Doctor, before the War, wouldn't have picked this table. He would have either chosen the corner that would make him completely invisible or sat down right in the middle of the pub, the center of everything. This was a soldier's choice, and it emphasized the change in the Time Lord all too well.

"If you don't mind, I'll take my chances," he said with confidence. "Maybe luck is on my side, and he won't come tonight. There doesn't seem to be an empty table left." The waitress looked doubtful but shrugged, secure that she had done her duty by her customers.

As in pubs everywhere, you could spot the regulars right off. There was a young man full of false bravado, torn between joking with his mates and the match that was being showcased by the telly scattered about the place. The Brigadier heard someone call the lad Mickey. There were the silent drinkers, solemnly nursing their haze. Lethbridge-Stewart got an instant impression of Joshua doing the same, right where he sat now. Several young men tried to pick up girls, and Mickey, along with the rest of his crowd, laughed at them good-naturedly when they failed, and cheered them on when they succeeded. Mickey and another bloke, Mook, were designated to get the next round, and the Brigadier barely heard over the presiding din someone yell a question as they passed.

"Where's Rose? She should be here already!"

"She's probably being held hostage by her mum. She'll be here. You know she can't resist a good match!"

By the laughter that followed that statement, the Brigadier was able to gather that the young lady in question was not a particularly keen follower of football.

Twenty minutes later, the door swung open and a young woman's shout, announced the newcomer's presence. "Rose! There you are! I've been worried sick, I was sure you had been attacked on your way here!"

"You say that every night, Shireen. You know I'm practically on first name basis with all the thugs ‘round here." She threaded her way toward the bar with practiced grace. "I'm off limits," Rose said proudly.

The Brigadier wondered how she had managed that, but quickly decided that it was probably too horrible to think about. He couldn't have known the more terrible truth: Jackie Tyler kept a close eye on everyone, and had become a matriarch in the area. He watched the two girls hug, and then Rose went on rounds in much the way a copper might follow his route, or a royal circulate the room. All of the regulars, and the crowd was mostly regulars, got a hug. About half got a kiss on the cheek.

He watched her turn to his table, saw her smile die and a confused and maybe even hurt frown that took its place. The Brigadier lifted his glass nonchalantly in recognition of her, and she offered a brief smile before turning away. He trusted that her clearly churning thoughts would cause her to forget the details of his appearance. After all, he might be called upon to meet her at some point, and it wouldn't do for Joshua to discover how very much he had been spied on, though Lethbridge-Stewart was sure he suspected it to a degree.

Watching her, he found Rose to be open and engaging. There was no guile in her, something almost never seen any more. Though he witnessed the remainder of her actions as though with the mute button on, the Brigadier was able to watch as several of her friends consulted her. She showed genuine concern for their problems, and they seemed to leave feeling better than they had come. She laughed and teased. She seemed to be the bright spot, the focal point of the room, and she was completely unaware of how unusual this was. After some encouraging, she offered the bar a song, and the Brigadier heard in her voice a warm spark of humanity that would beckon like a siren to the Doctor.

Ill at ease, Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart returned home. He had been hoping to find some fatal flaw in her, which would drive Joshua off. But everything about her was enchanting.

"If the Doctor were to love," he told Doris when he returned home, "it would be this girl."

* * *

Rose returned home, dejected. She had been practically assured of Joshua being at the pub that night. He hadn't missed a night since he'd moved to this part of town. She had stayed much, much later than she usually did, in hopes of seeing him again. He had taken her hand and they had run, and then he didn't come to the pub the next night. Maybe he was sick, she reasoned to herself.

So, after saying goodbye to the few stragglers that remained behind her, Rose had walked the ten blocks to the flats where he lived. Joshua was just returning home; she saw him unlock the door and go in, swaying like normal. He must have gone to a different pub that night. It was quite clear that he was trying to avoid her, that he regretted giving her encouragement, and that he was trying to distance himself from her. Fortunately, her mum was already asleep when she got home, so she indulged herself in a good cry before going to bed.

* * *

Harry was only too glad to release Joshua sometime close to midnight. Joshua’s fake cheer and enthusiasm for his book along with his faint interest in the lecture they had attended had been painful to watch. Harry had seen too much self-destruction to think that he alone could have any impact. As a doctor, he knew that a person usually had to reach rock bottom before they could begin to climb out of addiction, and since so much had been locked out of his conscious memory, Harry didn't think that he had reached the depths quite yet.

Joshua had dropped the grin the moment Harry's door closed behind him. His watch told him that he didn't have time to get properly pissed before the pubs would close. He stopped at a liquor store on his way to the pub for a bottle of his favorite whiskey and a pint of rum, tonight’s drink of choice, and opened the pint in the car. He was halfway to being as drunk as he could manage when he reached the pub, but Rose had already left. He should have known, it was too late for her to be there. Joshua drove home faster than he should have and clambered up the stairs, still swigging from the bottle of whiskey he clutched tighter than a life line. He never noticed Rose walking away, and if he had there would have been two of her, in his feeble state. He fell into bed, clothes and all, and let the empty bottle fall hollowly to the floor, his last futile thoughts a prayer that he wouldn't dream.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 4**

"I could use a key, call him out and ask him,” Alistair suggested.

"You promised him only for emergencies," Doris reminded him.

They were standing outside the door of Joshua's building, but hadn't even touched the buzzer yet because the Brigadier was still plagued with doubts about their visit.

"You don't think this is an emergency?"

Doris rolling her eyes, adjusted her grip on the tin of chocolate biscuits she had brought for Joshua. "I think, as I've thought for a while, that you and the boys are over reacting. I told you. It was a run through a park and they parted ways after. He’s a grown man after all not a hormonal teenager, so I really don’t think you need to worry just yet. For all we know he could have done it to give John a wind up. When he makes declarations of his love to this woman and insists on bringing her home for Christmas, then you can worry."

The Brigadier sighed and tried again to explain so his wife would understand his trepidation. "It's just... all the trouble we had after Miss Grant got married. He was miserable for weeks and that was long before Sarah Jane... How Harry or the Doctor ever got over her I’ll never know." He pounded one fist into his palm, exasperated. "The things I do for that man."

Doris shook her head. "Don't worry so, Alistair. C'mon, let's go up." She pressed the buzzer and waited a long moment, puzzled at this, as Joshua’s car was parked along the curb a few meters from the door. The electric door lock clicked open without inquiry. Doris arched her eyebrow at her husband and an answering scowl settled on his own face. There was no telling what they would find upstairs with this greeting.

Doris tapped on Joshua’s door. "'s open," came a muffled voice from inside, so she turned the door handle and went in.

Joshua was nowhere to be seen, but his flat was in a tip. Books and notebooks were off the shelves, papers were scattered thickly through the flat as if he'd been searching for something. The cushions were off the sofa, the coffee table on its side, and a large whiskey bottle lay empty on the floor in the hall.

Doris sighed and shrugged out of her jacket, hanging it in the closet. She handed her purse and biscuit tin to Alistair and stepped fully into the lounge. "Joshua, sweetheart, where are you?"

"’lo, Aunt Doris. Mind the mess, don't think it'll explode."

"Joshua Stewart, what is all this?" the Brigadier called, sternly, crunching through the litter to set Doris’ things on the dining room table.

"I lost somethin’. Can't find it anywhere." He sounded tired and very, very hurt. Then another sound filled the flat, wet, heavy and thoroughly revolting.

"He's sick," Doris whispered to her husband.

"Of course, he is," the Brigadier replied coldly not bothering to lower his voice, he stooped to pick up the empty bottle. "He drinks enough for a small platoon every-single-day. And you’ll remember what I told you about that." He said turning on his heel for the kitchen.

The Doctor had once insisted, in his younger years, after being dragged out for a night on the town with the UNIT lads, that it was no use wasting good alcohol trying to get him drunk. Time Lords, he had informed the Brigadier and Benton, didn’t get inebriated, unless they chose to, succumb to the effects of alcohol. Well, she didn't care, not any more. Ancient alien, wounded warrior, force for good, savior of humanity, he was family. It didn't matter to her that he was doing this by choice, he was only human now, a shattered man who had entrusted himself into their hands. She glared after her husband and went in search of their nephew.

Wading down the hall trying not to slip on the explosion of sheet music that littered the floor, she found him as she'd expected, in the loo, on his knees in front of the toilet, sweating, shaking and pale as a sheet. Seeing him like these flared maternal sensibilities within her, braking her heart and filling her with disapproval every time she found him like this. This was not the way to deal with his problems. At least, it appeared that he hadn't been trying to harm himself by taking actual poison this time, thank God. "Joshua," she said, softly, "you can’t keep doing this."

"I know," he replied, quietly, the rasp of his voice echoing in the basin. He uncurled stiffly and flicked the flush, before lying down flat on the cold tiles, and stared up at her with distinctly unfocused, puffy, blood shot eyes. He didn't have his ever-present jacket on and his shirt was nowhere to be seen, his trousers and chest were spattered with bile both recent and dried.

_Blast it_ , she thought. "Come on, up with you. Get out of those disgusting jeans and into the shower. Now."

Meekly, slowly, he obeyed her, climbing to his unsteady feet and shuffling around, searching, looking confused.

"I'll bring you some towels," she replied to that puzzled expression. "And what have you gotten in your hair?"

He ran a hand up and gingerly checked his head. Giving the sticky, purple substance that came away on his fingertips a quick sniff. "Hum. Grape jam, looks like."

"I suppose I'd better make sure you didn't destroy the kitchen," she said with an aggravated sigh.

"Thanks," he replied, his face breaking into that bright, brilliant grin.

She stormed out and found the towels, clean, in a tangle at the bottom of a laundry basket, pushed into a corner of his bedroom.  Setting one on the hamper just inside the loo, she closed the door to the hot, steamy room and gingerly picked her way down the hall again. “What a mess,” she sighed.

 Doris managed her way through the lounge and stopped a stack of notebooks and papers from toppling off the dining room table. Entering the kitchen to survey the damage she found Alistair sitting at the kitchen table, flicking through Joshua’s morning paper. It looked and smelled as if the room had been cleaned up. "Did you..." she began.

Her husband smiled up at her and nodded. "I can't stand a mess, you know that and it wasn’t too bad, just some preserve to clean up. Looks like the lounge took the brunt of it this time."

Doris put the kettle on and they waited in companionable silence for the water boil. She made tea, three mugs, and set one in front of her husband and one in front of the chair where she often found her nephew slumped when they came to visit. Keeping the third, she opened the refrigerator. "Sorry," she said, "there’s no milk or cream. Looks like he needs to go shopping"

"Typical," grumbled the Brigadier and he grabbed up the lone slightly done in lemon out of the bowl on the table. Doris handed him a knife from the drawer.

"I wonder what he lost that has him so upset."

Joshua appeared in the doorway, then, back in his uniform - clean dark jeans and a dark, drab grey jumper, with that ubiquitous canvas jacket over it. He looked better for the shower, his shaggy dark hair wet, leaving his coat collar damp, but still quite dazed. "Rose's song," he said quietly. "I lost her song. ‘m afraid I binned it"

Doris looked at her husband and noticed the guilty flinch, even if Joshua didn't see it.

"I used to have a piano too," he added, as he sat down, slumping in his chair and blinking blearily into the mug in front of him. "Do you know what I did with it?"

They stared at him.

“Joshua, dear, your piano is at our house. Remember? John helped you move it closer to the windows the last time you were home.

Joshua fiddled with the handle of his beaker before taking a tentative sip. Did he remember that? Was that the piano he had been thinking of? He didn’t think so but honestly, right now, he could barely string a sentence together let alone remember what had happened nearly a month ago. His aunt and uncle continued to stare, waiting for him to answer. Shrugging his shoulders non-committally, he did what he did best, avoided the question and slid down a little further in his chair.

They sat in silence, the Brigadier eventually returning to his paper and Joshua, pushing his full beaker away from him, to rest his pounding head on his folded arms on the table. Doris finished her tea and set the mug in the sink, removing her cardigan to drape across the back of her husband’s chair, she pushed up her sleeves and left the morose men to tackle the disaster of a lounge and to do a little damage control of her own.

Several minutes and the sounds of Doris shifting the mess in the next room passed, before the Brigadier had calmed himself of the exasperated rage he had been feeling since he had walked in the front door. The sound of Doris cleaning up yet another one of Joshua’s messes had only stoked his anger instead of assuaging it, but resolutely he regained his composure before he spoke.

“Joshua, this has got to stop.”

Joshua made no move to respond or give way his position. It was his breathing alone that gave away that he was still conscience

“The out of control drinking is not just destructive to you but your aunt and I was well.”

Joshua grunted in response still maintaining his repose.

“Stewart.” The Brigadier ordered, his voice full of authority and forced calm. The command had the desired effect and brought Joshua upright, pulling himself ramrod straight in the seat before his uncle, his watery bloodshot eyes now acutely focused on his uncle.

The Brigadier wanted to bark at him, to make demands that Joshua would never be willing or able to carry out. He wanted him to get help, to talk to someone, to stop the drinking that was torturing himself with his own self destruction and taking the rest of them down with him. Did Joshua even care about the countless nights he had spent pacing his own halls worrying about him? And what about Doris? She spent so much time caring for him, cleaning up after him, cooking for him, mothering him. They were supposed to be a family and he and his wife had willingly accepted him into their own. After all, Joshua was like a brother to him as well as the son he had always wanted.

The Brigadier wanted to tell him all of this but it quickly died on his lips when he looked into the eyes of the man across from him. The pain and regret that housed themselves there instantly and predictably stole his reprimands away, instead, he shook his head and went back to his paper. “Go help your aunt,” he directed and Joshua hauled himself up and retreated to the lounge following his uncle’s order.

Joshua found Doris on her knees in the hallway picking up the sheet music that was scattered across the floor. She sorted it into piles, the blank pages separate from those written on. He kneeled down, a hand on the wall to keep him steady as the sudden drop made his stomach churn and head pound even harder, and began to help collect the pages.

“You don’t have to do this,” he mumbled. “I can pick it up.”

Doris just shook her head knowing if she didn’t help him get the place to rights it would either cause a disagreement between her nephew and husband or the place would remain a mess until Joshua felt like seeing to it, whenever that may be. Besides she had had her own motives for helping clean up.

Early that morning, while Alistair had been otherwise occupied with his morning run on the treadmill and Good Morning Britain, she had retrieved the song he had shown her the night before, from the wall safe were he stored all of his current files and dealings with the Doctor. Making a quick photocopy on the office scanner and returning said copy to the safe, she had concealed the original in her hand bag to return it to its rightful owner. And now, she couldn’t be more relieved that she had done so, as it now was hidden safely within the sheaf of pages she held.

“It’s ok, Joshua, I’ll help.” Doris said softly and asked. “So, it’s a song you lost?”

“Naw,” he said gruffly. “It’s the tune ‘ve lost. Found the words in me journal last night.”

“Well that’s something then,” said Doris happily. “maybe you could rewrite it.”

Joshua shifted to sit down heavily against the wall and pulled his long legs up under his chin. He leaned forward, towards his aunt and tapped the papers in her arms. “Tried.”

“Oh.” she said and adjusted the stack.

“Had help writing it and . . . well, don’t think I could ask for the same help again.” He said sadly, answering her question before she had a chance to ask it.

“Well, don’t give up on it just yet,” she said as she rose to her feet. “there are a couple of pages in here more than half filled. Give your head a rest and then give these another look, could be that they’re nearly there or at the very least they could spark you on to something new.”

Joshua looked up at his aunt and gave her a weak dejected smile. Climbing to his feet, he took the papers she handed him and followed her into the lounge.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Rose was able to put off returning to the pub for the rest of the week, easily finding excuses to avoid the place. She would claim exhaustion from a day spent job hunting, or early morning interviews that meant she had to sleep early in order to be well rested. She insisted when Shireen asked her that it had nothing to do with Joshua, even if they could both tell she was lying.

She'd done something truly stupid, this time. She'd allowed herself to develop a crush on a bloke as in tune, emotion-wise, as Jimmy Stone was a gentle and compassionate lover. Ha. Right now, all Rose wanted was to build up the courage it would take to go back to facing him nearly every night. A few more days of solitude and she was sure she'd be fine, but not yet.

On Saturday, Rose could no longer avoid the place.

"You told them what?" she demanded of her mum.

"That you'd got the job at Henrik’s and wanted to celebrate," Jackie enthused, oblivious to how very little her daughter felt like celebrating or wished to go back to that particular pub. "You've been cooped up round here too much the past couple of days. You're getting pale and peaky. It'll do you good to go out with your mates. And, after all, my little Rose, working at Henriks’s, such a posh store." She beamed proudly as if having a job on the till was as impressive as doing something useful with her life.

Unfortunately, her mum had hijacked her phone while she wasn’t looking and sent out a mass text message to all her friends, telling them to meet at the pub that night in celebration. Rose had gotten back from the interview beaming, giddy with excitement, but upon learning of her mother's plan for her, the grin quickly disappeared. There was nothing she could do. Already her mobile buzzed and chirped the congratulations and confirmations that were pouring in. All her friends would be there and they expected the guest of honor.

Rifling through her wardrobe, Rose eventually brought forth what was probably the only outfit she could bear to be seen in that night. She almost never wore it, but her friends would be anticipating something special because she was supposed to be celebrating and this was just the thing. When a girl feels vulnerable, she decided, nothing can arm her to face the world like a smashing outfit and a fresh coat of makeup. War paint, she thought, finding the exact shade of lippy to match from her mum’s vanity and applying it with special care.

Nearly an hour later Rose smirked at her reflection in the mirror behind her door, her confidence returning in spite of herself. She felt reckless and confident and just headstrong enough to ignore the tiny voice of doubt that still whispered that it was all an act. She was fooling herself and she ignored the thought that certain people might see right through it.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Every night, Joshua walked into the pub with hopes of seeing Rose, and every night all he was treated to was the stares and whispers of Rose’s mates, Shireen and Keisha and the glowering face of Rickey the Idiot. In his soberer moments, Joshua wracked his brain and wondered if he had done something to upset her, but he couldn't think of anything. The only thing that stuck in his mind at all was their impromptu race, she had shown no sign of reluctance at the time, nor when they had parted at her block of flats on the Estate. In fact, she had smiled and waved him off, apparently, he wasn't as good at reading people as he used to be. At least, not human females.

On Friday, Joshua was greeted by an irate Mickey Smith outside the entrance to the pub.

"Wha'd you do, then?" Mickey spat out angrily slurring a bit. "She was fine till you showed up at the park. Haven't seen her in almost a week, now. None of us have. I'm guessing the only reason she's not been ‘round is you went and did something stupid."

When Joshua said nothing, silently staring the boy down, Mickey turned up the glare several notches. "I’m, right, aren't I? You just don't know a good thing when one's throwing herself at you. Take the hint mate and clear the fuck out." Mickey scoffed in scorn as Joshua pushed his way past the young man and into the pub.

Despite the current hostility from one of the patrons, and the slightly unnerving attention of a few others, Joshua never thought of finding a new dive. If he weren't so busy drinking and hoping that Rose would turn up, he might have wondered at the intensity of his hope of getting to see her again, or how very important her presence seemed to be to him. He walked into the pub on Saturday, experiencing equal parts expectation and despondency. Each new day renewed his desire to see her, and the confidence that she would come, and each night she didn't appear dashed those hopes digging the claws of his depression in just a little deeper. Tonight, he tried to quell the hope that rose again in his hearts by focusing on the previous disappointments, trying to temper the high so as to lessen his fall.

He had enough problems of his own to be getting on with, probably. Still, this one was taking precedence in ways that he thought ought to bother him, even as he focused all his alcohol-blurred attention on practically willing Rose to appear. He tried, in vain, to remind himself of all the reasons why she wouldn’t want to see him.

Slipping into his customary seat, Joshua noticed absently that the noise of the place was greater tonight, the crowd larger even for a Saturday night. After only a few shots of Patr, when he was still practically sober, the door swung open and a cheer erupted from nearly every patron. He lifted his eyes from the empty glass he was nervously toying with, and saw through a hole in the crowd, Rose, beaming as if she never saw a more friendly sight then a hazy taproom full of really loud people.

He marveled at how the entire pub was in a frenzy of excitement and seemed to be channeling his joy at seeing her again, before he realized that the word 'congratulations' seemed to be floating around quite a bit. The crowd parted to escort her to the bar, and Joshua felt a nervous thrill grip him and his thoughts stopped in a way that alcohol couldn't manage.

Since she'd walked in, all he'd been able to see was glimpses of her face, but when her friends provided an avenue for her to enter the pub properly, the full effect of her left him breathless.

He knew words in languages people had forgotten here for centuries. He could draw pictures with them, make them sing and dance and jump through hoops for him. Still, for all his literary genius, he couldn't find a single phrase to describe her better than the daft cliché of poetry in motion. She was a divine opus walking on earth, in knee-high, black suede boots. The two-inch heels made her look more delicate, as well as taller, and caused her hips to sway provocatively with each step.

Joshua's eyes trailed hungrily of their own volition up her muscular legs hugged by black tights and he wondered absently for a moment what it was like to be that lucky bit of nylon. When she turned to the side to say something to Kesha, behind the bar, he could see a floral pattern that was woven on the outside of the tights, granting glimpses of her pale skin. The flowers disappeared beneath the shortest black skirt he'd ever seen. A brief yet analytical thought surfaced, saying that the skirt had to be that short, as she wouldn't be able to maneuver if it were much longer, given how it hugged her round hips as if she'd been poured into it.

Her top betrayed her. Despite her efforts to look cool and distant, she would never be suited for wearing all black. Scarlet embroidery accented the creamy skin of her chest, exposed by the low neckline of her tight top and the ebony of the rest of her ensemble lending it life, just as Rose did to all around her.

For the first time since he'd first walked into this pub all those months ago, Joshua Stewart ignored the waitress placing four more shots and his whiskey in front of him. He couldn't tell if he was more drunk than he'd ever managed before or more blindingly sober than any person had the right to be. Everything else around him was an unimportant blur, but everything about her was larger than life and seemed to be transmitting through more than the usual five senses.

Rose laughed at something Rickey the Idiot said, her face lighting up the whole room as she graced the stupid ape with a sunny smile followed by a friendly punch to his arm. Twin stabs of jealousy shot through his hearts and flashed in his eyes. He wondered, really wondered, at what she saw in Rickey. Then, looking at the five full glasses before him with immense self-loathing, he wondered what those soft brown eyes could possibly see in him, either.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Rose was half convinced that she could literally feel Joshua's eyes burning into her, but she reminded herself that it had been her intention, to make him look at her. Maybe if he looked he might actually see her for once. But she was too afraid and more than a smidge too stubborn to look at him, to confirm what she hoped was true. She wasn't sure which idea scared her more, being right or being wrong. She wanted to look at him, all brooding and somber with steel blue eyes that killed at forty paces, and had to fight herself. Instead she kept a steady stream of well-wishers to distract her between herself and the corner he haunted.

After about an hour and despite her best efforts, Shireen finally succeeded in dragging her away from the crowd, claiming the need for a bit of girl talk. "He's been watchin’ you. This whole time, he's jus’ been starin’. He hasn’t drank a drop either since you got here." Rose didn't pretend that she didn't know who her best mate meant. She just tossed her curly hair and shrugged noncommittally. Shireen sighed and shook her head. "I know you're mad, or hurt, or both, or whatever, but do us all a favor. Jus’ look at him." With that, Shireen threw herself back into the crowd.

Berating herself for acting like a stupid child, Rose turned to glance at Joshua. That's all it was supposed to be: a brief glance. The intensity of his gaze, the almost palpable mixture of longing and fear in their crystalline depths, arrested her, leaving her lightheaded. She couldn't look away, more thoroughly trapped than any deer had ever been within the beams of a car's headlights. She couldn't move, not to turn, not to approach, not even to smile. Sally, Mickey’s mate, shrieked with laughter from somewhere in the crowd, the piercing noise caused Joshua to blink, his eyes breaking contact to survey the room and shift slightly in his chair. Rose was free. She managed a smile in his general direction, her eyes downcast, before returning to her hiding place in the middle of the room.

Finally, several hours and a few rounds later, enough of her friends had left for her to beg off without seeming suspicious. It was nearly one in the morning when she stepped onto the sidewalk, shivering in the cool air and wishing that she'd thought to bring a coat. She'd been too preoccupied with acting strong and in control to be practical. “Shite,” she cursed softly and wrapped her arms tightly around herself to keep warm as she started her trek home.

Halfway down the block, a jacket, warm with body heat, draped itself around her shoulders. Rose half screamed as she whirled around flinging the jacket to the ground to face her attacker. But when she found herself staring into a familiar pair of blue eyes, her fear disappeared, but her heart rate didn't slow down if anything it sped up. Joshua stooped, collecting his jacket from the ground he gave it a cursory brush before setting it back on her shoulders.

"You'll catch your death out here dressed like that," he informed her with a trace of stern concern dancing around the studied nonchalance with which he delivered the line.

"Yeah, but I caught your attention, didn't I?" She smirked up at him as they fell into step together.

"Is that what you were after?"

Rose's brain was screaming at her to play it cool, not to screw this up, but the truth slipped out despite her best efforts. " I'm not sure. I didn't think so when I put it on." Uncertain of what to do next, Rose just smiled at him, settling the coat more firmly around her, and threaded her arms into the too long sleeves. Turning her nose into the collar she surreptitiously inhaled the scent that clung to it: alcohol and ink, she supposed, with patchouli and sage and something undefinable that she could only describe as him.

Joshua's eyes followed the curve of her smile, and Rose licked her lips in apprehension and her hand moved of its own volition to tuck a stray lock of hair, under his scrutiny. His lips parted ever so slightly when she did that. His eyes came back to hers and he smiled softly, so beautifully, her heart might have skipped in its already too rapid pace. She smiled back, then, bewildered and a little giddy, not even caring where she was going as long as she was with him. They moved through the foggy night, only their shadows for company when they passed the occasional streetlight dotting the cobblestone street.

She turned to say something, anything to break the strange silence that had settled between them when Joshua's hand snaked out, lightning fast, and grabbed her waist, pulling her tight against him. She gasped and a car, a Vauxhall Chevette, too fast for the neighborhood and the dense fog, went screaming over the spot where she had just been standing. Horn blaring in irritation the Sunhatch disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared. Rose gaped up at him in astonishment, unable to think or even move.

Joshua wasn't sure how he'd known the car was coming; he certainly hadn't been paying any more attention than she was. He'd just known it, like he knew the names of stars or the meaning of alien dialects scribbled on the side of space junk. He glowered down the street after the driver and wondered if all his years as a soldier had done it. Probably. Or maybe it was the ears. He tilted his head down to make a joke about having better hearing, when the reality of the moment hit him.

Rose was in his arms, a delicious weight as she clutched at the front of his jumper. She was staring up at him with wide dark eyes, breathing quickly still from the shock of what had happened and what had nearly happened. Her mouth moved to frame words of gratitude, but he shook his head, and she remained silent. Against his better judgment, Joshua leaned even closer to Rose.

"You kiss the bride when you congratulate her," he murmured. "Is there a similar custom for the newly hired?" He wondered at his sudden bravery but put it down to the way she felt, fitted against him as if she belonged there, safe in his embrace. Again, Rose's tongue darted over her lips and he couldn't help following it with his eyes. Plump and pouty, her lips were so much redder than usual, as though trying to be more inviting, which was, of course, impossible.

"That's up to you," Rose told him, her eyes scared and daring him at the same time. Common sense had apparently left the scene because, heaven help him, he was closing the distance between them and her eyes fluttered shut in anticipation.

Unexpectedly her mobile rang, startling them apart, Rose had never seriously considered homicide as a viable solution until that moment, but she had a few choice words for whoever was interrupting them. The word 'Mum' stared accusingly at her as she hit the ignore button and stuffed the offending item in her back pocket. The spell, however, had been broken, Joshua walked her as far as her building, and Rose returned his jacket, but, much to her disappointment, there was no repeat performance of the kiss that almost was. Only the memory of his shy smile and parting goodnight followed her to bed.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 5**

"I understand." Lethbridge-Stewart said into the telephone. "I'll see what I can do." Bidding the caller farewell, he put down the receiver and pursed his lips in thought as he rocked back in his leather desk chair. Doris chose that moment to poke her head into her husband's office.

"John's here, dear."

"Send him in."

Benton was soon sitting comfortably across the desk from the Brigadier waiting to be told why his friendly visit suddenly seemed to be more about business then pleasure.

"UNIT will be sending us some delicate materials that have come through the rift in Cardiff."

"Cardiff? Thought that was Torchwood III's territory." John asked, surprised that the Welsh agency would send these delicate items over 200km just to have them analyzed when they had their own labs and staff, right there.

"It is, but they were preoccupied with a minor Weevil infestation, so the salvage mission was bumped over to UNIT and Bambara’s squad. Anyway, it's seemingly unidentifiable therefore possibly dangerous. Bambera was hoping I could get in touch with the Doctor and figure out what they're dealing with."

"I take it you didn't tell her that he's currently drunk in the East-end of London thinking he's human and wallowing in guilt and self-pity?" Benton's face remained perfectly straight. Lethbridge-Stewart raised an eyebrow in mild consternation.

"I asked her to send us a sample of what they were dealing with. It'll be here tomorrow. If we don't recognize it, which since they didn’t we probably won't, I'll use the first key-word to call out the Doctor. The first question can be 'what is this?' Then we can use the remaining time to figure out what to do about this woman. Maybe even determine whether or not this experiment is even helping."

Benton chuckled at his commander’s fore thought, he couldn’t believe the Brigadier was still fixating on Joshua’s blonde. "Won't he see through that? It's a pretty flimsy excuse to bring him back temporarily."

"What's the worst he can do?" the Brigadier retorted. "Be mad at us for ten minutes before switching back to Joshua? We need answers, and the item en route might be hazardous. Under normal circumstances, we'd ask him if he was around. So, we bring him out and ask."

“But this isn’t quite a normal circumstance, are you really sure about this, sir?”

The Brigadier considered Benton for a moment. It wasn’t like him to question his authority, especially in matters involving UNIT. “What do you mean?”

“Well you know how Joshua gets when he just sees a pepper-pot, can you imagine how he might react if he’s put in front of actual alien tech?”

The Brigadier sniffed, “What does a pepper-pot have to do with a load of space junk?”

“Nothing. Except that Joshua associates it with The War. Last week, at dinner, he nearly punched the server that brought a pepper mill to our table.”

The Brigadier shook his head and frowned, still not understanding what his subordinate was on about.

John sighed, and stated what he thought was completely obvious. “They look like Daleks. The domed head and the tapered body. I always thought the buggers looked like human-sized pepper-pots.” Benton smirked remembering his own encounters with Daleks. “Pepper-pots, egg whisks, and plumber’s helpers, the deadliest household gadgets in the universe. Is it any wonder Joshua blows up his kitchen appliances on a regular basis? He probably finds the house goods department at Tesco’s frightening.”

“Ah,” said the Brigadier, finally understanding what Benton was trying to say. “I’m afraid this is unavoidable, Benton, but I do understand your concern.” The Brigadier smirked, a brief smile tugged at his mustache. “That’s probably the reason why Doris can’t find any of her salt and pepper shakers. Anyway, as a precaution, I’ll ask Sullivan to be present as well when we call the Doctor out.”

Benton just shrugged, his expression clearly saying, _your funeral._ “I guess I'll be collecting Joshua tomorrow to bring him out."

"No. I'll get him over here. I need you to collect the package from headquarters."

“Christ, they sent it to the Tower of London? They must really think it’s volatile, then.”

“I’ve no idea, Benton, but best safe than sorry.”

Benton rose from his seat then and saluted out of habit after the Brigadier dismissed him. He bid Doris a quick farewell before leaving the estate. He didn’t share the Brigadier’s confidence over this plan. It was short sighted and it could easily be a disaster exposing Joshua or the Doctor to this possible reminder of The War. John gripped the wheel as he sped off down the drive, preparing himself mentally for the fight that was bound to happen.

 ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Joshua reminded himself that he loved his uncle as he trudged through the house trying not to shed dirt and bits of garden on the floor. He headed up the back stairs to the room they still kept for him, where he kept at least a change or two of clothes.

He'd spent the entire morning helping Aunt Doris in the gardens. Joshua didn't actually want his relatives to handle some things without him around, things like moving concrete benches and cutting back large tree limbs. He'd known when Uncle Alistair called him about it, that he had to be there, because aunt and uncle probably would have tried to do it themselves.

Instead, Aunt Doris had gotten to spend the morning cheerfully bullying him into all sorts of manual labor that she probably believed was good for him and he of course had obliged. Now, he had a song he couldn't place stuck on repeat in his head. This happened every single time he went into that infernal back garden with the locked blue shed in it.  He was quite dirty from his work and more tired than he cared to admit, but Uncle Alistair still wanted to talk to him before lunch.

Opening the closed door to his room, he tossed his jacket on the chair beside the bed on his way to the chest of drawers. Tugging open the drawers in turn, he was happy to find a clean jumper and jeans along with fresh pants and socks, and tossed them on the bed. Rifling through his coat pockets rewarded him with the flask he carried with him everywhere. Unscrewing the cap, he sniffed its contents before taking a swig. Whiskey. Half full. It wasn't much, but it might at least take the song out of his head and stop the headache that inevitably would follow, which was a start. Flask in hand he wandered into the ensuite and turned on the shower. It was just what he needed, he thought as he disrobed and polished off the last of the whiskey, a hot shower and a stiff drink before he got the hell outta there and back to London. Back to his writing and wallowing.

Harry and John were both there when he came down at last to the Brigadier’s office, and if their smiles and greetings were more strained than usual, he didn’t notice. He was too busy trying to come up with an excuse to leave as soon as possible.

Lethbridge-Stewart was cautiously opening a box marked "Fragile" in seventeen languages. He gently removed the metal case with in it and set it on his desk top. Cautiously he popped the locks and began removing the contents from their foam rubber cut outs and placed them carefully on the desk before the others.

"Joshua," the Brigadier began, making sure he had the man’s attention, “Pay attention to what I’m about to say. I need to know what these are." His lips moved towards the beginning syllable of the first key but he was beaten by the sometimes-loquacious Joshua.

"C'mon. You know what that is," Joshua said to the general shock of the room. "It's a Jectutian demolition charge: potentially catastrophic grade. Press green, yellow, purple, orange, orange, pink to arm and then red seven times with exactly 1.7 seconds between each depression to disarm."

"Of course," the Brigadier stammered trying to regain his composure. He looked up pleadingly at Benton and Sullivan unaware of how to cover his near miss. Doris who watched from the open doorway, sprang into action and her husband’s aid.

"Joshua, dear, can you give me a hand?" she asked. "I need the platter down from the top cabinet and the step-stool is broken." Leaving his seat, Joshua followed his aunt out the door.

The second they felt they were out of even the Doctor's ear shot the three remaining men turned to each other, urgently. "How can he know that?" the Brigadier demanded his wooly eyebrows knit together in consternation.

"Obviously, the Doctor left himself knowledge of alien tech." Benton remained relatively calm, this turn of events actually tickled him, but he kept his reaction well-schooled. You can’t put much past the Doctor, or Joshua for that matter. John knew most of the Brigadier's unease was due to the disappointment of no longer having a valid reason to call forward the Doctor. "Although I have no idea why."

“Perhaps, this way we don't have to call him out too often," Sullivan said with some certainty for once. "The less he has to come out, the less he has to be aware of what he can't yet face."

"But how did he fit this into Joshua? He has no need for this knowledge.” asked the Brigadier.

“How do anyone of us know about alien artifacts. Just because the Doctor shut out certain portions of his brain doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have the capacity to function like anyone of us.” pointed out Harry.

"He probably thinks he saw it at UNIT. It only makes sense since he’s posing as retired military that he retains enough of these details to maintain his façade." Benton chimed in.

"Well." Benton clapped once and rubbed his hands together slowly breaking the silence that had fallen between the men as they contemplated his last statement. "This does solve one problem. If Joshua will play along, he can tell Bambera what she's got her hands on." The Brigadier nodded once, tersely, still miffed that he was unable to contact the Doctor himself.

Voices floated in from the hall, and the men wordlessly tabled the conversation. Joshua trailed Doris into the room, a cut-glass tumbler of bourbon in his slightly shaking hand.  He took his seat before his uncle’s desk and casually stretching out his long frame, grinned at his uncle.

"So, are we going to continue playing silly buggers or have I convinced you that, even if I'm retired, I'm still Major Stewart?” he asked and took a long drink from his glass.

"I'm convinced," Lethbridge-Stewart assured him. "In fact, I'm so convinced, I want you to do a consult in Cardiff."

"Excuse me?" Joshua said, his brow creasing in disbelief.

"Some of our records were lost in the last change of administration. So, we can't properly identify some of the artifacts Torchwood recovered. Even though you've probably encountered some of them, I need you to go down there and re-catalog them."

"I'm retired," Joshua stated flatly.

The Brigadier braced himself for an argument as the other watched on. “It'll only take you a week or so…maybe two. And Bambera has specifically requested you for the job"

Joshua snorted. “Send John.” He replied, tossing back the last of the bourbon, his hands noticeably shaking.

“I’ve plenty of consults and contracts of my own.” Benton answered.

"Retired," Joshua sing-songed, rolling his eyes.

"Consultants get paid 5,000 quid a week plus expenses," Benton put in.

Joshua hesitated. He really didn't want to return to active duty, or anything remotely resembling it. Repulsion and panic warred with more practical sensations as there were always bills to pay. "Fine," he spat out, disgusted that pecuniary considerations and peer pressure had won out. He was sure that it hadn't always been that way for him. “Expenses,” he grumbled, “had better include my hotel bar tab.” With a nod to Harry and Doris, Joshua stood abruptly. Setting down the empty tumbler on the polished top of his uncle’s desk, resisting the urge to hurl it against the wall in an explosion of glass, he left the study without another word, his friends and family staring after him.

Fuck, what had he just done! Joshua couldn’t get out of the house fast enough, his heavy boots thudded against the wood floors as he made a beeline for the door. Banging out the oaken front door he picked up his pace and jogged down the stairs to his car parked in the drive. Throwing himself into the driver’s seat he lowered the sunshade enough to retrieve his key and jammed it into the ignition. Joshua threw his car into gear and tore off, down the estate’s drive, spraying gravel in his wake.

His hands were shaking violently now, and he gripped the steering wheel tightly attempting to stop the uncontrollable movement of his hands. His knuckles turned white, aching from the strain. He was desperately trying to keep himself together, fighting the blind panic that was rising within him trying to out run the inevitable. A sheen of cold sweat instantly burst from his pores making him shiver uncontrollably.

Joshua was careening down the highway, speeding faster than he ever dared. A continual litany of curses spilled from his lips as he berated himself over agreeing to help his uncle, to go to Cardiff, to go back to UNIT. Anger, panic, regret, and terror hit him in waves that his mind struggled to recover from.

“What did you do, Stewart. What the fuck, did you just do? You can’t do this. Just can’t. What did you do? Ugh! What the, fuck, did you do!”

A brief moment of clarity reached through the dark haze of his panic-stricken mind. Glancing at speedometer, his current trajectory startled him enough that he removed his foot from the accelerator. Flying down the road at 127mph was no place to do this. No place to succumb to an anxiety attack. He was caught. Again. He was in that manic hell in which his mind repeatedly proved it could ensnare him, disabling him with his own guilt and terror. Stuck in the middle of nowhere without his crutch to numb his brain against the onslaught of his imagination. Two hours outside of London, in the country, without a public house or liquor store in sight. He cursed himself for letting his flask run dry, he should have filled it out of his uncle’s stores whether the old man approved or not.

A sign for a rest area flashed past him and he began to apply the brakes, he had to get off the road before he caused an accident. Pulling into the turn off he stopped abruptly, throwing the car into park, he tore at the seatbelt that restrained him. Scrabbling at the release trying to push the damn button that came between him and freedom.

Joshua began panting. His throat was closing up causing his chest to burn and his hearts to race mercilessly as the suddenly too close confines of the car seemed to draw nearer with each passing second. His vision grew dark and the scent of smoke filled his nostrils.

Finally, his shaking hand released his seatbelt and he burst out of the car. Running several yards into the grassy picnic area ahead of him he fell to his knees gasping for air his vision going completely black as he was consumed. Joshua had no idea how long he lay out there, alone, before the small voice of conscience that had gotten him off the motorway, urged him to struggle back from the edge and into control again. He sat up and swayed as he felt the world spin and tilt before him. The effect made him nauseous and his head pounded in syncopated rhythm with his hearts.

Cautiously rising to his feet, he stumbled back to his car. It still sat running, driver’s side door agape, thank goodness for small wonders, had this happened closer to London the car would have been stolen and he probably would have been mugged to boot. He started to get in the vehicle but the reality of being in such a confined space, it seemed so much smaller on the inside, was just too much for him. Instead he switched off the car and shut the door. He took a seat on the pavement and leaned back against the car door to wait out the lingering effects of the attack.

His vision had returned fully and he could finally breathe again, unencumbered, though he thought he could still smell smoke but that was a common side effect of his attacks, he would smell smoke and fire for hours afterward. And his hands would shake. He looked down at the offending appendages as they tremored and shook ceaselessly as they rested against his thighs. Knowing him, they’d shake the entire time he was in Cardiff. Joshua pushed a hand through his sweaty hair and closed his eyes, he needed a drink. Needed it worse than he had in a while and no other place but the Rose and Crown would do. And if he was willing to acknowledge his feelings, even just a little, there was another reason he wanted to go there. Rose might be there. There was something about the woman that just made him feel better.

 _____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

The details of Joshua’s trip were determined on his mobile that evening over the din of the pub. The Brigadier asked him once, if he was comfortable in doing this consult, an oddity indeed, as once an order was given, the Brigadier would rarely go back on his directive unless there was good cause. But Joshua had pridefully and semi lucidly declined. No matter how he felt about this return to service he wasn’t one to go against his word either. The Brigadier had wanted him to leave the next morning so he could spend a full day getting back into the routine of regular work. Joshua however had insisted that he needed time to locate his credentials, pack, and it went without saying- to get completely pissed one last time, his uncle surprisingly agreed. The extra time would also give him an opportunity to talk to Rose, for some strange reason he felt compelled to tell her he was leaving for a while.

Joshua remembered, walking into the pub that night, that Rose wouldn't be there. She had told him as much the night before, that she started her new job at Henrik’s the next day and wanted to be fresh so she could make a good impression. Disappointed at this recollection, especially after the day he’d had, it only furthered his depression. He also knew her well enough to know that she wouldn't go to the pub after her first day, either. Instead, she and her mates Shireen, Keisha, would gather at her flat. Chocolate would probably be involved. In moments of insane confidence, as he sat there nursing his welcomed buzz, he imagined that he would swing by her flat before her mates could arrive to tell her that he would be leaving for a bit. He even imagined that he would make good on the kiss he failed to follow through with last week and that she would give him her mobile number, making him promise to call.

The Rose and Crown was less of a solace than usual. Well, no, it was the exact same, his problems were just more immediate and his senses more attuned to them. Something in him had rebelled at seeing the weapon that hadn't decidedly originated on Earth. There was no way of knowing before-hand what had been dragged out of that gaping hole in reality in Cardiff and for some reason, he was terrified that he might find…something. It was a very specific fear, that made his hearts race and it became difficult to breathe again like a half-remembered night mare or the beginnings of another anxiety attack. But unlike that afternoon, the burn of whiskey in his throat and the vague numbing of his feelings afforded him the opportunity to try and follow this fear to its source, but his alcohol sodden brain would get distracted and he couldn’t finish the thought.

The pretty blonde waitress, Jenny, lined up a few more shots of gin and a large tumbler with three fingers of Lagavulin as requested. "You seem more down than usual, Josh. What's up?"

"I hate Cardiff," he mumbled as he stared dejectedly at the scared tabletop. He traced his thumbnail over and over the initials R.M.T. that had been scratched into the soft wood.

She laughed at the apparent non-sequitur. "What's that to the price of tea, then?"

"Have to go there tomorrow," he explained gruffly.

Jenny seemed surprised to be losing one of her best customers. "How long before I get to see your smilin’ face again?"

"You've never seen me smile," Joshua reminded her.

"Well then, how long 'til you'll be back givin’ me your money?" she asked, deciding not to mention that he tended to smile quite a bit when Keisha’s friend, Rose was around.

"Week. Maybe two." He knew he sounded even more depressed than usual when Jenny offered him a comforting smile.

"That's not so long. Barely a drop in the bucket," she said bracingly. Joshua just nodded and downed a shot, signaling that it was time for her to move along.

It was nearly closing time when Joshua stumbled out into the parking-lot. As usual, he became functionally sober by just concentrating for a few minutes.  A brief wait in the cool air made him, what he felt, was safe to drive and he always indulged in the ten or fifteen minutes of fresh air before getting behind the wheel.

During this interlude, Joshua watched Mickey stumble out with his mates. "Half 5. That's when we should get there. Rose'll be home just before 6. It'll do her good to know that we're behind her." Mickey was probably reiterating.

Joshua's attention was captivated by this morsel of intelligence. “Shite,” he swore under his breath. There would be no way to talk to her without her mates around. The last thing Joshua wanted was Rickey the Idiot, living up to his name, while he tried to say goodbye. A single solution presented itself on the drive home: he would drop by Henrik’s tomorrow.

 _________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

"New girl gets the broken till" had been the general consensus when she arrived for her first day. She was told it shorted out about once a week wiping the daily sales totals from its memory. When it did so it left the clerk at its helm to manually calculate their totals. The store refused to pay for a proper replacement part, but Wilson, the junior electrician, could usually jiggery- pokery it back into working order. And so, Rose had already made a new friend.

Wilson was a natural brunette, but blonde by choice, as was she. A willowy man with platinum spikes, flashing green eyes and the most flawless makeup she had ever seen. He was funny and nearly as flamboyant as Elton John.  He was the nephew of Bernard “Bernie” Wilson, the senior care taker of Henrik’s. It was firmly believed by most of the store’s staff that it was high time for Wilson the senior to retire and make way for the younger man to take the title of chief electrician, a position he had more than earned. Rose bonded instantly with the young man while discussing the various brands, shades, and coverability of blond hair dyes. She had even felt comfortable enough supplying him with her mum’s business card, for the next time he was in need of a touch up.

Being the type who makes friends easily, Rose also found herself with fast enemies. There would always be people who had a pettiness in their spirit, who envy the warmth of others. Stephanie McDowed was such a young woman. Capable of being very charming when it suited her, Stephanie used her charisma to be the most successful salesperson in the Ladies department at Henrik’s. She was introduced to Rose as the model employee.

"Stephanie," Rose was told by Joseph, the floor manager, "also holds the store's record for the highest sales on her first day."

Rose was genuinely pleased to meet her and promised to do her best to emulate her success, and by lunchtime, Rose’s own sales were threatening Stephanie's record. Then her register short circuited, and Rose was temporarily out of commission. She still continued to help the customers, but had to direct them to the other girls for the final sale.

A natural lull entered the store like around 3:00. Everyone was waiting for the end of the day, when people started getting off work, the store would spring back to life.

Rose chatted happily with Wilson while he worked on her register and she re-folded clothes discarded in the dressing rooms. She watched as the other girls grouped together on the sales floor in conversation as they played at working. The group Stephanie spearheaded was only five feet from where Rose stood, and she could, if she cared to, hear every word.

"Have you noticed the new girl's clothes?" Stephanie stage whispered derisively. The smile faltered on Rose's lips, Wilson saw her reaction and stopped grinning to turn and glare at the group of women. Looking both of them in the eye, Stephanie smirked evilly at their reactions and pointedly continued to tear Rose down.

"That shirt has got to be seven years old," Stephanie continued. "I didn't know it still existed outside of museums, thrift shops, and kindling for Guy Fawkes."

Rose looked down at her Burberry blouse. It was one of five name brand things she owned and she was proud of it. She'd gotten it on sale and taken good care of it opting to hand-wash instead of using the washer. It still looked new, and she always got complements when she wore it, mostly, Rose knew it flattered her.

"And her trousers!" Stephanie was on a roll now. Wilson, arms crossed and staring daggers at Stephanie placed himself between the girls and Rose, drawing himself up to his full six feet. "I've never seen anything that was so obviously, a knock-off and they are practically painted on her. What a chav.  She must have slept with Joseph to get the job." The women around her tittered at Stephanie’s final jab.

Rose’s face fell, withering like a tropical flower hit by a sudden frost. She didn't like to think about that. Joseph was a friend of one of her mum's “friends”, which was how she'd gotten the interview. What Jackie Tyler did with her boyfriends wasn't something Rose ever wanted to think about. After spending the weekend with her lecherous friend Seymour, Jackie had told her she had an interview despite Rose never having applied.

With every perfectly formed Chelsean syllable that fell from Stephanie's lips, Rose felt herself grow smaller. She would have normally spoken up for herself, but she knew now that her cockney accent would do her more harm than any words to defend her could. It was like Pygmalion, only backwards. She'd gotten the job, but now she felt awkward and out of place, like she couldn't speak, couldn’t be herself. Stephanie's words ate into the ground beneath her and Rose felt like she was going to fall.

These girls were only working here to show daddy that they "knew the value of a hard day's work," while they lived off a trust fund. This job was a real opportunity for Rose and the first job she had gotten after looking for what had felt like ages. Working here, she might actually be able to get out of the crushing debit Jimmy had left her with and move her toward a new future- but now. At what cost to her dignity was it worth?

Everything about her, it seemed to Rose, was being called in to question, even her honor. She was dimly aware of a male voice telling the women off. There may have been a query about how she was, but it seemed so far away. She retreated quickly towards the employee restroom, determined to not let anyone see her tears.

 _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

When Joshua entered the Ladies department at Henrik’s, he thought he caught a glimpse of Rose disappearing down a hall. He walked up to the nearest person with a Henrik’s nametag, a tall man with spiked blonde hair who was labeled as the junior electrician. With his most charming grin, Joshua greeted him pleasantly, hoping this wasn't going to get Rose in trouble on her first day.

"Hello, I’m Joshua Stewart. I'm looking for Rose Tyler. Can I speak with her? It'll just take a mo'."

The man looked him over, appraisingly raising and eyebrow. Joshua couldn't tell if he passed the test of not until Wilson spoke. "Trust me. She doesn't want to talk."

Joshua searched the young man's face, but he was telling the truth. His demeanor held knowledge, even insight, but not falsehood. Rose didn't want to see him, didn't want to talk to him. He'd gone and screwed it all up again. With all the mistakes, he'd made with her, Joshua almost believed a divine power must be trying to warn him away from the woman.

He nodded once in acknowledgement and made his escape from the department store, but pain and humiliation followed him home like Faust's black dog.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 6**

Cardiff was everything Joshua had expected it to be, only worse. He sat alone in his hotel room, on the edge of the still made bed, drinking scotch out of a disposable plastic cup. It was 03:00, only two more hours before he could return to base without attracting unwanted attention to himself. He just wanted to finish his report and get the fuck out of this damnable place.

Polishing off the remainder in his cup, he rose unsteadily to his feet and shuffled across the room to where the nearly empty bottle rested on the desktop. Joshua poured the last of the Penderyn into his cup and dropped the empty bottle into the bin with a hollow thump. He swirled around the pale golden liquor in his cup before up ending it into his open mouth. His eyes closed automatically, savoring the nutty flavor and familiar burn as he swallowed, following its progression from his tongue, down his esophagus into his stomach to rejoin the rest of the bottle that had been consumed that night. Briefly he thought of picking up the complementary pad and pen and jotting a line or two about the poetic experience he had just encountered but just as swiftly as the idea had come, it flitted away.

Grabbing the electric kettle off the desk he wobbled into the bath to fill it, again, he let his eyes drift shut as he waited for the water to warm up before filling. An unnecessary habit when it comes to pre-programed electric kettles but a habit none the less. Full kettle in hand he carefully made his way back into his room and made preparations for an exceedingly strong pot of tea. With a great yawn, he dropped into the oversized easy chair to wait.

Slouching, in the chair, his legs stretched out, booted ankles crossed and his forearm propping up his head, he rubbed hard at his brow and eyes trying to wake himself up. He hadn’t slept since his first night in Cardiff, four no five, days ago. He was beyond tired, beyond exhausted and was nearing the point where his self-enforced sleep deprivation was making him see things that weren’t there and he felt ill all the time. In other words, he was effectively working himself toward complete body shut down.

Joshua had arrived at UNIT’s Torchwood out post early Tuesday morning. Most of the day had been filled with the usual militaristic palather, updating his credentials and clearance levels (which were now quite low considering he was a major), the usual walking tour and being shown the area he was to do his classifications in (a ruddy airplane hanger under constant surveillance), and he was briefed by Brigadier Bambera herself.

It was a simple task he had been drafted into, he was being used as a time saver as well as being utilized for his extensive expertise in non-terrestrial tech. Bambera needed the job done and she needed it done quickly for reasons Joshua wasn’t privy to, but he didn’t care, as far as he was concerned the less exposure, he had to anything remotely military the better off he would be.

The work immediately proved to be more tediously mind numbing than he remembered from before his retirement. At a cursory going over he could already tell there wasn’t going to be a single thing he hadn’t already come across before. No time would be spent exploring new languages or discovering new technologies, instead, all of his time would be devoted to the dictation and categorization of these items to a handful of soldiers as they catalogued what he was sure had been recorded before. Most of it was severely damaged and possibly past the point of repair. That is unless, Torchwood and UNIT’s technologies and development labs been upgraded by leaps and bounds since his departure from them.

He had been handling it all rather well, he had thought. He used controlled breathing exercises and sensory stimulation, as Harry called it but it was really just sucking on strong mints, to surreptitiously keep his building anxiety under control. His reactions were more schooled as well, having put a mask to his emotions and he had tried to detach himself as much as possible from what was going on around him. It wouldn’t do to actually let his feelings of terror and utter revulsion that were gouging great holes of desperation in his resolve out. This damn place, this measly job wasn’t going to break him.

An accident while rearranging the inventory of space junk did prove to be the straw that broke the camel’s back.

 __________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

On the afternoon of the first day Joshua had the men assigned to him start to move the inventory strewn about the hanger into what he thought was a more logical order, at least it would be when they began the real task at hand. The actual grunt work of re ordering lasted all afternoon and into the evening well past tea. He pushed his men to finish the job before they left for the day so that when they regrouped in the morning they could begin the long arduous task of cataloging.

Joshua’s men were moving the last, item into place, a Vinvocci life support pod, a small but extremely heavy lump of twisted metal and broken glass. Whoever had tried to escape in the pod surely hadn’t made it as it’s near impregnable Vocci glass had been shattered and its interior mechanics were exposed, singed, by its exposure to its fall through the rift.

The lads were having a difficult time moving it into place as it’s stabilizers were broken and kept shifting unexpectedly on them.

“Stewart!” shouted Lieutenant Garcia.

Joshua tossed the bit of Atraxi homing device he’d been inspecting onto the table in front of him and ran to Garcia’s side catching the base of the pod before it crashed to the floor. The others grunted as he caught it and it’s eight stone of rolling stabilizers rolled back into their hands. The broken glass sliced deeply into Joshua’s thumb causing blood to spurt wetly onto the glass and making his hand slip, loosing purchase on the smooth surface.

“Put it down,” Joshua ordered and the men dropped the pod unceremoniously to the floor in a grating screech of metal against concrete. “Bloody bit of Vinvocci bollocks,” he cursed and kicked at the pod with his steel toed boot.

“Sir?”

Joshua turned to look at his men and quickly forgot his anger as a cold sweat broke out all over his body and panic tore at his hearts. His men were hurt. They all were in need of a trip to medical, with cuts and abrasions on their hands, necks and faces as they had been carrying the pod on their shoulders. Officer Baxter it seemed had taken the brunt of it and held his hand to a gash that ran from ear to chin. Blood wept through his fingers and dribbled onto the collar of his olive drab vest.

It took Joshua more than a minute to find his voice and a minute more to grasp at enough composure to speak. “All right, that’s enough for tonight. Garcia, can you assist Baxter to medical?”

“Yes, sir.” answered Garcia. “Stewart?”

“Garcia?”

“Are you ok, sir?”

“I’m fine,” Joshua grated out.

“But you hand, sir.”

Joshua looked down at his right hand, blood forming a small puddle on the floor beside him. Bile rose sharply in his throat and he instinctively swallowed against it.

“Garcia. Baxter. Medical, now. That’s an order.” Joshua turned on his heel and made a hasty retreat from the hanger. He banged out the metal door, past security and as soon as he was free to, he ran.

Driving recklessly through the unfamiliar streets, on his way back to his hotel he stopped at the first liquor store he came to and purchased a pint of whiskey. Escaping the close confines and the prying eyes of the shop he stumbled back out the door and onto the sidewalk with his purchase. Leaning against the cold brick of the building he cracked open the pint and tossed his head back guzzling down as much liquid oblivion that he could. The dark liquor leaked out of the corners of his mouth in his haste to consume and it wasn’t until he stopped to draw breath that he wiped away the evidence as it ran down his chin.

He felt alone and exposed on the deserted street as he watched the fog roll in. His hearts began to thunder as the feeling of panic robbed him again of his control, the urge of flight rather than to fight his demons took hold again. Stealing another gulp from his bottle, he replaced the lid and pocketed it.

Getting into his black military issued sedan, Joshua wiped his jacketed arm against his sweaty brow and pushed his wet hair out of his eyes. Wincing as the cut on his thumb caught on each strand of hair and burned more intently with its exposure to his sweat. Pulling his injured hand down to inspect it in the dim light of the car he hissed at the damage through gritted teeth, he was going to need stitches. Entering the hotel’s post code into the car’s GPS, and smearing blood on the screen while doing so, he was routed down the sparsely lit street and back to the thorough fair that would take him there.

Back in his room, Joshua was finally able to regain some semblance of composure. With the help of the room’s sewing kit and a few quick douses of whiskey as antiseptic, he put in a neat row of eight small stitches to hold together the ragged wound on his thumb. The jagged glass of the pod had cut a three-inch-long gash from the pad to the ball of his thumb narrowly missing tendons and nerve endings. It had taken the rest of the pint for him to be able to complete the procedure as he hated needles, especially dull ones, but under the circumstances the thought of a doctor and returning to base or even a trip to A&E for medical attention made him feel physically ill. Hand stitched, he removed his boots and jacket and lay down to try and settle himself before he attempted to find something to eat but the stress and anxiety of the events of the day had taken their toll and soon he drifted off.

Joshua lay asleep, twisting and moaning caught in the tangle of his sweat stained sheets. The night terror that consumed him caused him to cry out and scream in agony in the still quiet of his hotel room.

_There was so much blood. Baxter lay awkwardly on the rubble he had fallen into when the mortar shell had hit, blowing up the street before him. The pack on his back causing him to pitch awkwardly to his side. The young lieutenant cried out in fright and pain as Joshua held a handful of gauze pads to the side of the young man’s neck. He unclipped the strap of Baxter’s helmet, removing it to cradle the lieutenant’s head in his lap. Joshua screamed for help, screamed for a medic, as tears streamed down his face. The pads filled too quickly in his blood-stained hands, made sticky with the viscous life giving fluid, and the panic and struggle he had found the young man in was slipping away._

_Joshua didn’t know why he cried. He didn’t even know the kid, just a newbie to the front line, recently assigned to him that day by a superior with as much heart and feeling as a wet mop. But the boy was so young, too young, and the two of them were there all alone, caught in the maelstrom of open weapon fire. How many children were going to die in this war? How many had died because of his actions, his decisions, how many had died because he had given the final order, Joshua wondered._

_He looked down at the boy that lay limp, barely breathing in his arms and screamed. Gun fire from the fire fight was still going on around them, so close and so rhythmic in its rat-a-tat-a-tat, rat-a-tat-a-tat, sounded as if it was coming from mere yards away. Someone could surely help them, someone could surely hear his cries. He screamed, “MEDIC!” again. An alarm went off close by as the rat-a-tat of gun fire continued, causing him to jerk dropping the lieutenant’s now lifeless form._

With a gasp, Joshua woke, and scooted across the bed in fear. He pressed his body, legs pulled tightly to his chest, against the padded headboard to cower and sob in fear. The remnants of the battle fading from his now open eyes as he took in his surroundings. No longer on the frontline, no crushed concrete only the tangle of his bed linens before him. No wounded soldier dying in his arms.

Reality began to filter in around him as the talons of the nightmare loosened their grip. Someone was pounding on his door and both the room’s telephone as well as his mobile on the bedside table were ringing. Taking a deep shuddering breath, he pulled himself together. Wiping his eyes on the backs of his hands he stretched across the bed and picked up the receiver and replaced it ceasing it’s ringing without responding to the caller. Rising from the bed he grabbed his mobile and hit ignore before stumbling to his door.

Unlocking the deadbolt, he opened the door to face two men on the other side.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Stewart?” asked the young bloke on the other side of the door. He was dressed impeccably in a dark three-piece suit with red shirt and coordinating tie the name tag below his pocket square read I. Jones, definitely hotel staff.

Joshua nodded while he regarded the young man’s muscle standing behind him. Dark hair, clear blue eyes, much like his own, and a clefted chin the man exuded authority and experience. He also wore suspenders and a belt, either the man couldn’t make up his mind or he couldn’t keep his pants on.

Jones politely waited to see if Mr. Stewart would speak, give a reason for the complaints that had been coming in to the main desk for the last hour lodged against the occupant of room 205. But he could tell that the man was in no mood to talk. Best to make his questioning as brief and as inconspicuous as possible and then leave the man be.

“Mr. Stewart, is it just you staying with us this visit?”

Joshua nodded again and opened the door wide stepping aside so both men could clearly see into the room without entering. “Yes, just me.” He answered.

Jones looked relieved. “And, are you in need of any assistance medical or otherwise?”

Joshua shook his head in embarrassment and as an answer. He had been screaming again, in his sleep, he just knew it. He swallowed and felt the raw burn of his throat as a confirmation of his actions.

“Are you sure” asked the muscle, his voice kind and his accent American. He looked pointedly at Joshua’s shirt front.

Joshua looked down and saw drying blood smears across the front of his white cotton vest he held up his open palm in answer to the muscle’s question, showing off the new stitches and apparently still bleeding wound. “Work injury.”

Jones smiled warmly and the muscle nodded in acknowledgement of his answer. “I’m sorry to hear that Mr. Stewart.” And now here came the hard part. “We’ve had several complaints tonight about noise levels in this room and I do have to formally warn you that the police will be involved should the noise continue or the language become more alarming.”

Joshua’s ears practically glowed from the blush that rushed fully to his cheeks and ears. What on earth had happened while he slept, while the nightmarish hell of his subconscious brain took over?

“That being said, if there is absolutely anything that you require during the duration of your stay please feel free to ask for me, Ianto Jones, and I would be only too happy to help,” the young man said trying to smooth over his not so idyll threat.  “Please have a good morning, and enjoy the rest of your stay.” Jones gave him a warm smile and the two men turned and retreated down the hall.

Joshua shut the door and locked it. Turning on all the lights he sat on the bed, his mind reeling with what had just happened. His mobile began to ring and vibrate in his hand, looking down he hit ignore again and then pulled up the missed call log on his phone. It was his uncle, of course it was, the hotel probably had the Brigadier’s contact information from the booking, maybe even had him listed as a possible emergency contact or secondary source of pay should the need arise.

Joshua didn’t feel like talking. He didn’t feel like much of anything right then, he was still numb from his dream and its consequences. Awkwardly he held his phone in his opposite hand and texted his uncle back least he decide to send a detachment to come check on his welfare. Knowing his uncle, he had probably already been visited by them.

Nightmare. Ok, now.

It was all he wrote but it would be enough. Staring across the room at the mirror above the desk he inspected the image before him. Tired, scared, haunted, and drink were the words that came to mind as he studied his reflection, but drink was the easiest of them all to deal with. Standing, he went to the mini bar and broke the seal on its contents. Scooping up as many of the tiny bottles of booze that he could hold he took them to his bed. He wasn’t going to let this happen again, not so far as he could help it. The horrific dreams couldn’t find him if he didn’t succumb to sleep, a childish thought but one that he knew would work, at least until it didn’t.

 _____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

And so, he found himself sitting alone in his hotel room, on a Saturday night, as drunk as he’d ever gotten, five days without sleep living on biscuits and booze, teetering on the edge of collapse and waiting for time. Time seemed to turn so slowly anymore. He felt as though he was on the slow path watching the turn of the Earth as it crept along in periphery of his vison. Wow. He really was pissed.

Joshua found himself staring at the telephone as he drank, uncertain of when he'd begun and unable to stop. He knew it wouldn't ring. Uncle Alistair kept track of him through Bambera and a supposedly imaginary security detail, at work and seemed to be content to let him have the nights to himself. Harry was busy at surgery. John was away on his own contract work or at his gym or well, he actually had a life, which was something Joshua tried to tell himself he didn't envy. Rose, as far as he knew, didn't know where he was, and probably didn't care to know. Even if she did know she had no way of contacting him. There were a fare few that knew his mobile number and they wouldn’t be keen to hand it out to anyone without good reason.

He didn't know how, but obviously, he'd offended her again. Maybe trying to kiss her. Maybe not kissing her, and that had been more than difficult. Maybe just talking to her when she was trying not to talk to him. Maybe she had finally wised up and realized that her new friend was just a soused old fool.

He just wanted to talk to her, even if all she did was yell at him. He cursed the telephone a few times in various languages which of course did him no good. The contraption was useless, conveying only a voice, not a face or a thought, but Joshua would’ve been thrilled for just her voice. He had a nagging feeling that he hadn't always had to rely on such a primitive device to communicate, but it was a hazy and unfocused notion, like the memory of a dream, or even a memory that had been formed in a dream.

Cardiff, Joshua decided, was his least favorite place on Earth.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

 

Stephanie had, in one week, turned all of Rose's coworkers against her or so at least it seemed. The managers, fortunately, seemed to be immune to her nasty comments, but her work environment swiftly became unbearable. It was all she could do some nights to not give drinking a go. For her friends’ sake, she put on a happy face. All of them were proud of her. They saw a job like that as a ticket out of council estates, and she wouldn't want any of them to be discouraged from their own escape.

Her mum wouldn't listen when Rose tried to tell her what was happening at work. Jackie told her that she wasn't used to having to work, and was just looking for sympathy or a reason to quit. Rose clenched her jaw and wisely remained quiet after that.

She thought, no, she knew that Joshua would listen. He would believe her, he would comfort her. And he came from out there and could probably return whenever he wanted to, so she needn't scruple to tell him.

But he wasn't there. The first night she figured he was busy, and refused to make the same mistake she had last time. After all, he had a life outside of the pub, friends and family of his own, and she did too. She wasn’t going to be one of those clingy types that lost who they were when they got involved with a bloke, not that they were involved. The second night though, she was confused and a little worried. While Mickey and most of her mates argued over a football match, Rose silently nursed a pint, not really wanting to get drunk, but not really up to socializing.

Jenny was working the bar that night and offered to top her up. "Long day, love? You look like you've been hangin’ around Josh too much," she chided gently. "Turnin’ into him when he's gone."

"I'm surprised you're not more concerned about him being gone. He must single-handedly pay your rent." Rose glumly nodded her thanks as Jenny returned her full glass of lager.

"Well, he did say he'd be back in a week or two. And I can tell my landlord to shove off for two weeks."

"'He said?' Did he tell you where he was going?"

"Cardiff. And he was in a right mood about leavin’. He didn't tell you?"

"Not a word. Guess he didn't think about it. Not surprised he told you, though." She tried to keep the anger and sarcasm out of her voice, with limited success. "Wouldn't want you giving his chair away," Rose told her, paying her tab and gathering her things before Jenny had a chance to speak.

On the way home, she took the long way, walking the five extra blocks out of her way to go past Joshua’s building. Berating herself for believing that he cared. That he could even care enough to tell her something like that was laughable. She was just some girl from the pub, and he was the type to look after others when they needed it, nothing more. She didn’t care. She didn’t care about him or what he thought, she told herself as she stole a glance at the dark windows of his flat. She just didn’t care. She didn’t care. She didn’t care.

Rose didn't even believe herself no matter how many times she said it.

 ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

For Rose’s second week of employment she conducted an experiment to save her sanity and her job. Rose kept her head down and did her duties with as little interaction with her coworkers as possible and she found it worked. Keeping her normally bright disposition to herself kept her out of the lime light and no longer a threat to Stephanie. Rose found that most of her co-workers just ignored her as long as she acted miserable around them. However, her faulty register soon shorted out again, and Wilson wouldn't be ignored.

"I've been wanting to ask you all week," he began without preamble. "Who was tall, big-eared, and handsome?" Wilson waggled his perfectly shaped eyebrows suggestively at her as he unscrewed the back of her till.

"Sorry? “she asked coming out of autopilot.

"The bloke who came to see you your first day. Older, blue eyes? All broody and sexy with a grin that could stop your heart?"

"You mean Joshua?" Rose looked at Wilson completely, sure one of them had lost their mind, but she couldn't tell which.

"That's the bloke."

"Joshua came to see me?" Rose asked weakly her mind spinning at the prospect tears instantly pricking her eyes. She'd spent the last five days oscillating between fury and depression whenever she thought of him, which, despite her best intentions, was at least several times a day. Her hand groped behind her at the marble counter top she suddenly found she needed for support.

"Yeah, right after the coven showed their true colors," Wilson began excitedly, but stopped when he turned from his work and saw the look on Rose's face. "Wait…you didn't know? Honey, what's wrong?" he asked, setting down his pliers and coming to Rose’s side.

"I thought…I thought he just didn't bother telling me." Rose was now leaning heavily against the counter as her thoughts and feelings skidded into a U-turn. Maybe she had been completely wrong about him, again. She really didn’t know what to think, Wilson’s statement had totally blindsided her.

"Tell you what?"

"That he was leaving." Rose wasn't making eye contact, just staring at the far wall.

Wilson watched her in silence and she managed to dispel the dazed look for a few seconds with a forced smile.

"I heard it's only for a couple weeks." The smile disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, remembering what Jenny had said the night before. "But I thought he didn't care."

"Trust me," Wilson told her gently. "I saw him. He cares." Rose's startled eyes flew to his. "And I am so jealous."

The tension broke and they both laughed, not from humor so much as camaraderie.  Waves of relief washed over Rose and her mood lightened considerably. It felt like it had been ages since she had felt happy and she continued with her task of hanging new merchandise with gusto, cheerily chatting away. Joseph walked past with a sarcastic comment about circuits rewiring themselves. Wilson good naturedly told him to bugger off, but got to work. He could hardly keep from watching Rose, he was so glad to see her smile again. Since her run in with Stephanie he had watched her change before his eyes, Rose had seemed so withdrawn that had he not know that she desperately needed the job he would have been certain that she would give notice.

When Rose went to the pub that night, everyone was glad to see that the light had been rekindled in her eyes.

 _____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Brigadier Winifred Bambera looked up from the spiral bound book and external memory drive that had just been slammed down onto her desk.

"Yes, Doctor…Stewart?" she asked, non-pulsed, the man standing before her desk. He looked as though he had been through hell and back. There were dark circles around his tired eyes and his hands shook more that they had when she had first met this new incarnation on Tuesday. If the rumors from his security detail were to be believed the alien had developed a drinking problem and all the demons that come along with it.

"Everything's been cataloged, sir," Joshua reported in a rebellious mockery of military discipline. "I believe my work is done."

Bambera raised an eyebrow while she looked over the six-page coversheet. The simplified list and descriptions of all the items that had been recovered would have taken her team over a month to complete, even if they had known what the items were. She supposed she shouldn't be surprised. He was still the Doctor, as Lethbridge-Stewart had assured her, repeatedly throughout the week.

"And the artifacts?"

"All tagged and stored as protocol dictates for their hazard level.  Which is next to nothing. You got a load of garbage outta that rift this time.”

Bambera nodded and continued to flip through the manifest until she found what she had been looking for. The Jectutian demolition charge was listed as a Level 16 in the hazard profiles and standards. You couldn’t take out a planet with it, it wasn’t a “Death Star” caliber weapon, but it could eliminate a country or two in this small planet. Listed alongside the demolition charge were Jectutian generators and power cells all of various hazard levels.

“This doesn’t add up, here, Stewart. “she said pointing out the Jectutian haul. “Shouldn’t these items collectively rank as a Level 36 on the hazard profile?”

Joshua shook his head, he had known this would come up as soon as he had laid eyes on the demolition charge. “Incompatible technology, sir. “he replied gruffly trying mightily not to roll his eyes at what Bambera was clearly thinking.

Bambera raised her brows but that was the only outward recognition she gave to his response. “Explain.” she ordered pushing for verification of what she suspected. Plus, it didn’t hurt to put the Doctor through his paces whether he was in hiding or not.

“Think of it this way,” Joshua explained a bit sarcastically bringing the concept down to a level that even a child could understand. “It’s like playing a CD on a hi-fi and trying to listen to it through wireless ear buds. Same planet and species of origin but completely chronologically incompatible technologies.”

Bambera coolly regarded the man before her, that was definitely the explanation she had been expecting.

Permission to blow this hell hole?" Joshua asked breaking the silence that had settled between them.

"Permission granted." Bambera managed to keep her countenance despite his attempts to disrupt her authority. She watched his mask drop, and a grin suffused his face.

"Fantastic." He tossed her a friendly mimic of a salute and charged out the door as if pursued by demons.

Considering all that she had heard, he probably was. She sighed and picked up the phone to let Lethbridge-Stewart know that his alien problem was on the loose again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 7**

"He's here," Shireen's voice over her mobile was a whisper against the din of the pub in the background.

Rose dove into her clothes. She hadn't seen Joshua in more than a week, and he'd almost kissed her last time. Well, almost was too strong a word, maybe. 'Considered' would be better. But he had shown up at Henrik’s to see her and, just because they'd missed each other, it didn't mean he wouldn't be happy to see her now, right. Maybe he had missed her while he was gone, maybe he thought of her while he was hanging around doing God knows what in soddin’ Cardiff.

She'd actually decided that it had to have something to do with one of his degrees. Maybe someone had dug up some old relic and needed an expert on languages. It sounded really exciting in her head, and exceedingly better than her week had been, anyway, and she couldn't wait to see him again and possibly hear all about it. She hoped he was in the mood to talk at least. Really, she hoped he wasn’t in a mood at all.

"Who was on the phone, sweetheart?" Jackie asked from her seat on the sofa as Rose snatched her mum’s light denim jacket off the recliner.

"Oh, Shireen. She's had a bit of a break down and wants me to come talk to her. I don't have to be back to work 'til Monday, so I thought I'd go down the pub for a bit, sorta catch up."

Detaching the arms of her sleeping boyfriend from her waist, Jackie stood up and adjusted the top of her bright pink velour track suit. "You sure are dressed up a bit for just seein’ Shireen. Mickey said something about you being chatted up by some old man." she said giving Rose a quick hug goodnight.

"Mickey talks too much," Rose said, rolling her eyes and trying for cheeky. "You know how he gets."

"Well, he likes you, he does. And Mick’s got a good job with the mechanic's shop, I don't see why you won't go out with him."

"Mum, we're mates," she said, firmly, answering the all too familiar question. "He jokes about it and all, but he's not serious. I've been over his flat twice this week and he told me to kit off the minute I got there and Paul and Trent were even home."

"You shoulda smacked him," Jackie said frowning at the revelation.

"Nah, he was joking, Mum. That's what I mean. Blokes don't tell you to kit off at the door when they're serious."

Jackie looked dubious and shrugged before settling herself back onto the sofa. "All right, sweetheart. But you just be careful. I don't want some old pervert carrying you off."

"I'll be fine," she promised emptying her mum’s cigarettes and keys from the jacket’s pockets onto the glass coffee table. "And make sure you toss that one before I get back," she added softly.

Jackie just grinned up cheekily at her daughter as she was pulled into a hug by Howard, freshly woken from his doze. It made her look ten years younger. Rose rolled her eyes and left.

 ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

By the time, she had crossed the estate, though, Rose's confidence had almost completely deserted her. Her palms were sweaty and she wondered, desperately, what Joshua had wanted to say when he showed up at her job. Why hadn’t Wilson just asked him? Would it have been so hard to take a message while he had been ogling him? And if it had been something good, what if he'd changed his mind while he'd been in Cardiff? Ran into an old flame, or what if he decided to tell her he wasn’t interested in her as more than a friend, or maybe he had met some pretty Welch girl with a proper education and job? Maybe she had A-levels or even a degree from uni and didn't have to work the till in a shop full of snobs who hated her.

The more she obsessed about it, the more worried she became. What if this imaginary girl was a doctor, like him, someone more his own age? Someone smarter, someone prettier, someone who wouldn't have taken up with the likes of Jimmy Stone, or who would have knocked him on his arse by herself?

Rose snuck into the pub behind a group of ladies out for a hen night, she was trying to avoid being seen too much before she was ready, even though everyone in here, including the group she walked in with, knew her. Her little white blouse with the bright red cami peeking through the semitransparent fabric, felt too tight and too silly looking all of the sudden, her hip hugging jeans felt restricting and like they were showing the wrong features. She kept trying to rationalize it to herself, knowing she was acting like a kid with a crush and wondering why in God's name she was even trying. He probably thought she was some adorable little child and had come to Henrik’s to ask her to feed his cat. Did he even have a cat?

She sidled over to Shireen who was gabbing with Kiesha at the bar and ignored Mickey and Trent when they demanded to know why she looked so worried. She and Shireen escaped the blokes to a table and bent close to it, talking like they had when they were first best friends in grade school. Mickey muttered something about "girl talk" shaking his head and he and Trent turned back to the telly.

"Just go talk to him," Shireen pleaded. Watching her friend chew at her lower lip, Rose sat hunched in the chair beside her.

"I can't," Rose insisted fiercely and nervously twisted a lock of hair behind her ear.

"He won't come to you," she reminded Rose, rolling her green eyes. "He's nailed to that chair and besides, if he tried to come over, he'd just fall down. He’s looking rougher than usual tonight."

"Be nice," Rose demanded.

"I am. He's pissed as a newt every time anyone sees him. He’s already barked at Kiesha and nearly had Jenny in tears. Bleedin’ surly sot."

“Shireen.” Rose hissed and covertly glanced around to see if anyone had heard her.

"He was sober that day I went to his flat," Rose defended dropping the new information like a bomb.

"What, seriously? Why?"

"Thought I was trying to set him up with Mum. Scared him clear-headed, I guess."

Shireen and Rose both giggled themselves silly at that thought. What Jackie Tyler would do with a man who could drink even her under the table... "Eeew," they squealed together, falling back in their chairs from laughing.

"Wonder why, though," said Shireen after a moment of happy silence.

“Why, what?”

“Why he’s drunk all the time?” Shireen clarified.

"Isn't it obvious? He was in a war or something, I mean he doesn't seem like the sort of person to just give up otherwise." Rose answered wistfully.

Shireen rolled her eyes. "Rose, let's don't go there, a’ right?"

On this point, the girls had long since agreed to disagree. Rose was convinced that she was a better than average judge of character most of the time, Shireen was convinced that Rose was a bleeding heart, setting herself up for being totally crushed one day. If the Jimmy Stone thing had ended any other way, Shireen would have said 'I told you so', but she wouldn't have had to do. There was a part of Rose that knew her friend was probably right but she couldn’t help it. It was her automatic default to find the good in others.

"Hope it wasn't one of those American ones," Shireen muttered gloomily. "I've heard they do things to people and stuff."

Rose would have replied, reminding Shireen that just because she saw something on the Internet didn't make it true, but Mickey picked that moment to come over and ask if he could speak to her. She nodded and instead of taking the empty seat by Shireen he asked her to a quiet corner, making Rose quite annoyed and nervous because this table was far too close to Joshua's brooding presence. She could almost feel his eyes from here and wondered if Mickey had brought her over here to parade her in front of Joshua on purpose in a show of masculine pride.

"Look, Rose, we've known each other for a long time, now, and I . . ." Mickey sucked in a deep breath and blew it out, shaking his head, he took another pull from the beer he held. Great. Everyone was looking for answers in a bottle these days. "I wanted to ask you . . . ask if . . . I mean . . ."

She sighed, giving him an understanding smile and decided to rescue him before he had a chance to make it worse. "Look, Mickey, it's really sweet of you and everything, but I can't go out with you." She pulled the trump card, played it first because she wanted to make this as painless as possible, for the both of them. "What would happen to me if you weren't my friend? And when friends start going out and stuff, things go wrong, you know?"

Mickey frowned, he wanted to argue, but he wanted to agree with her, too, obviously, because he was trying to convince her he could make her happy. He had wanted to make her happy for years, quietly falling in love with her. So, his face shifted between several expressions and they made Rose’s smile widen. "I just want to take care of you," he finally told her. "You need looking after."

"No, I don't." She frowned at him, sternly. "I'm a big girl, Mickey, I can look after myself." She put her hand over his to soften the blow and gave him a winning smile. "You're one of the best friends I could ever ask for, seriously, and I don't want to risk that ever."

Apparently, her brush-off tactics worked well, because he sighed, then nodded. "You're right, there. But you just say the word, and I'm your man."

She laughed and stood up, hugging him tightly. "I know, Mick. You're the best."

"I know," he agreed arrogantly, gave her a peck on the cheek, and wandered back over toward the bar and his telly.

She turned to go back to Shireen’s table but didn't have a chance. Her gaze was arrested by stern blue eyes, and she took a deep breath, even as she felt herself drawn to him. She walked over to Joshua’s unable to break his gaze.

"’s that why you're avoiding me?" he asked crossly. "Givin' it a go with ol' Rickey?"

"I wasn't avoiding you," she mumbled.

"I saw you come in, you know." He frowned, the furrows in his brow deepening causing his blood shot eyes to squint, then he nodded quite decisively. "I can remember that."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm so proud of you," she said sarcastically.

"Don't mind me," he suggested with an awkward flip of his hand toward the bar. "I'm extremely drunk."

"Yes, I know. Everyone knows. People in foreign countries know."

"Really? Fantastic." He beamed at her and she was lost in that smile. God help her, but she could watch him smile for ages. "I'm famous, me," he said proudly.

"I don't doubt it." She considered sitting down across from him, but didn't know how he would take it. He seemed to be mad at her for some reason, even though their silly banter continued undeterred. "Guinness Book of World Records, you are. 'Course my mum can stay drunk just as long as you can."

"Tell you what," he answered snidely, and downed another shot. "You don't bring up your mum and I won't call you the future Mrs. the Idiot."

Oh. So, he had been watching and now he thought she was going out with Mickey. "If you're so curious, Joshua, you could just ask me."

"Ask you what? Do you know the capitol of Upper Volta?"

"No, do you?" she shot back, trying to keep from laughing at him. The conversation felt like it danced along a precarious line, too serious and it would turn into a row. But if she kept it light, and dared to laugh it would only encourage him.

"Used to. Think I've been there. Or maybe it was Lower Slovenia, I forget. So, where's Rickey taking you, then?"

He stood up abruptly and started stacking shot glasses, as if to clear room on the table. Probably was, to make space for more. Something shiny and bright caught her eye, dangling from its chain around his neck. She flicked the little metal tag with a curious finger, then blushed as she realized she'd gotten very close to him to do that.

"Doctor's orders," he said, vaguely and tucked the tag and chain back down the front of his vest and sat back down, looking for all the world as if standing had definitely been a problem. "Well, Dr. Sullivan's orders. Although it may be Doctor's orders, can't remember."

"What?" she asked, smiling at his strange comment, trying to figure out where that had come from.

"Harry says I gotta wear 'em all the time.” he clarified.

"Why would he do that?"

He frowned at her, his head tilted to the side as if trying to see what she was made of or something. "Isn't that a personal question?"

"Dunno, is it?"

"Yeah, it is. No one else is s'posed to doctor on me. Harry's the only one." He held up his hand and showed her a nearly healed, neatly stitched, 3-inch incision in his right thumb. "'Course I can doctor on maself, but don't tell him, yeah?"

"Sure," she said, and snatched his hand, pulling it towards her to look at the cut in some surprise. Had he really stitched it up himself? "What'd you do?"

He slowly withdrew his hand from hers. "G'on. Run back to Rickey the Idiot, he's prob'ly missin’ you."

She rolled her eyes and leaned over the table. "See you later, Joshua," she said, and kissed his cheek.

Or meant to.

It was like one of those scenes in movies or books, not something that ever happened to anyone in real life. But then, Joshua wasn't normal, not even close, he was perpetually intoxicated, so of course he turned his head at exactly the right moment. And then, Rose was pretty sure they weren't actually in real life anymore. Because the moment her lips brushed his, she felt the most unbelievable jolt and suddenly the whole world was spinning under her feet. At first, she wanted to pull away, startled, but she felt dizzy, as drunk as he usually seemed to be.

He flung a warm, canvas clad arm up around her waist to steady her, but didn't withdraw from her at all. In fact, his lips brushed against hers again and again her name on his lips a whispered sigh. She didn't know whether she wanted to pull away or for Joshua to deepen the kiss, but she couldn't decide or even move because the world and everything in it had frozen down to that single, heady sensation.

She whimpered in confusion and frustration. Joshua jerked back, dropped his arm, and the sound of his chair scraping across the floor and clattering to the ground behind him made her eyes fly open. He was looking down at her and his eyes said he was honestly terrified by what had just happened. She blinked in surprise, her hand reaching up to touch her lips.

He made a sound, low and guttural, in a language she didn't recognize, but whatever it was, it was definitely a curse.

"Joshua?" she whispered reaching out to him.

"Time," he announced, firmly, and turned to the door.

She would never have believed in her entire life that anyone swaying that much could possibly move as fast as he did. She just stared after him, losing sight of him in the tangle of people, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened, when she felt Shireen's hand close on her elbow spinning her around. Her friend was bouncing.

"I saw, I saw, what was it like?" Shireen demanded her eyes dancing

"Where'd he go?" said Rose raising up on tiptoes scanning the crowd.

She moved away from her friend towards the door when she heard the piercing sound of tyres squealing in the parking lot and her blood ran cold.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 8**

Ten blocks, ten blocks to his flat, Rose thought in a panic barreling out the door of the pub. She paused in the lot to scan for his car, hoping it had been someone else’s tyres she’d heard. Ten blocks and he knows it really, really well. He drives it all the time, he's probably driven it before in worse shape than this she told herself

She hated him a little for that. Her mum had once hypothesized that the unknown driver who'd killed her father was probably drunk. Of course, no one would ever know that, not now, but she couldn't help but think that Joshua - who should be so much better than this - was risking his own life and everyone else's in his path, just for the general fuck all of it.

Fear and fury rose together and decided her. She took off down the street at a dead run, trainers slapping hard at the cobblestones. If he went home any time before she had to be to work on Monday, he was going to face up to this fact. Even if he drank enough whiskey to fill the Thames, he was still going to feel her slap for a week.

By the time, she had run two blocks, she was winded, even operating on sheer rage. Never mind. She was going to hit him so hard, his ancestors would feel it. It would become imprinted on his genetic code and his grandchildren would feel the twinge from it on cold days.

The sound that suddenly echoed through the street, surrounding her, drove the anger right out of her. It blotted out the exhaustion, the sting of the stitch in her side, and any sense of control she had. She knew that sound. That was metal hitting metal with force enough to destroy.

She might have screamed, the sound echoing and bouncing off of the buildings surrounding her. At least someone did.

She ran, oh God, she ran.

The scene she came upon was enough to stop her heart, or would have been, if it hadn't been pounding in her chest with enough force to shatter her ribs. She approached the wreck - definitely Joshua's, blue Altima with that inexplicable "WHO NYN" plate had plowed head-on into a street lamp.

The front end of the two-door coupe was folded in completely embracing the lamp post that had stopped its trajectory. The lamp post was bent in half over the car, casting an unsettling, flickering light show over the nightmare. A scene she never wanted to see again for the rest of her life. Steam boiled up from the engine as it ticked and knocked in shock and protest of its own. It looked like the air bags had fired as well, so thank whatever god that looked after stupid drunks for that. Two blokes were pulling Joshua from the car and he was obviously not conscious enough to help or hinder them. He lay slack in their arms as they shifted him to the side walk. She knew, she definitely knew it was her who shrieked out his name, because all of the accumulating bystanders and the blokes trying to help turned toward her at once.

A woman rushed over to her, concern written all over her face. "Is that your friend?" she asked placing a hand on her shoulder, steadying her suddenly wobbly legs.

Rose shook her head. "Boyfriend," she managed to grate out in her shock. Even though it was a lie, it felt like the truth at the moment. Her stupid boyfriend who had unthinkingly driven while drunk as a lord because of some stupid thing to do with something that she would probably never know what it was but at the same time she felt responsible for it too.

This might be her fault.

She hated him a lot right at that moment. Almost as much as she liked him, in fact.

She staggered over with the woman helping her, wondering briefly when those feelings had happened and why in the hell she had let them happen to her.

They had dragged Joshua on to a blanket someone had flung over the pavement. "I'm a medic, for Royal Hope," one of the men announced to her. "There's no sign of a spinal injury, he wasn't driving that fast...no idea why he's out..."

The man kept talking, asking her for information, but she didn't hear. She knelt down next to Joshua, instead, and reached out to touch his face with a trembling hand and stroked his cheek minding the blood from the cuts on his nose and brow. He felt cool, almost cold and he looked so still, so calm, so wrong. He was scaring her to death and she decided she would give just about anything to see those heart-stopping eyes and that maddening boyish grin right about now. Something flashed at her in the lamp light and she remembered. Her recognition spurring her into action.

"Shit," she said and reached for the beaded chain around his neck, liberating his medical tags from the confines of his shirt. It was a miracle she knew about them, a lucky bit of chance that was on his side, hopefully. “Please”, she whispered, “please let there be a number.”

"What is it?" the medic asked.

"He's got a condition or something," she said, no idea what the real reason was. "He's not s'posed to see but one doctor." She fumbled the tags in her shaking hand, tilted them again in the semi darkness, and the medic held up a large torch over them so she could read them.

"In case of emergency, contact Dr. Harry Sullivan," the medic read for her. She nodded and wrenched her mobile from her pocket and punched the number in while he read it aloud. "Do not treat or administer medication without authorization. Absolutely no aspirin."

"Huh," said the other bloke. "Must be allergic."

Rose committed that to memory while the phone rang in her ear. "Please pick..." she whispered.

A groggy voice answered on the other end of the phone. "'Lo?"

"Dr Sullivan?" she said, softly. They'd only met that one time down the pub and she hoped to God he remembered her.

A cleared throat. "Who is this?"

"Dr Sullivan?" she pleaded looking down again at Joshua’s still form.

"Yes," the vaguely familiar voice agreed. "Who am I speaking with?"

"Joshua's been hurt." She blurted out, rushing in her panic. "This is Rose - we met once at the pub."

"Hold on," said the voice, suddenly awake and all business. "Where are you?"

"About seven blocks up from his flat. Toward the Rose and Crown, of course, the stupid lump. What do I do?"

"He's breathing? He's... er, normal?"

"Yeah, he's breathing and stuff, but he's unconscious, the medic guy here said he didn’t think there was any spinal damage. He’s trying to find his pulse at the moment."

"Blast it all!" Dr Sullivan exclaimed. "Look, I'll be there in ten minutes, tops. Can you call the Brigadier?"

"Who?"

"His uncle."

"Oh. What's the number?" she asked. She snagged a pen from the same woman who had helped her before and jotted the number on the palm of her hand. "Dr. Sullivan, this medic bloke's going nuts, can you hurry?"

"On my way."

"Thank you," she breathed, softly the breath she had been holding coming out in a rush, and pressed end on the call. "He says ten minutes," she told the medic.

"Good, 'cuz there's something right funny about his pulse," the bloke said looking perplexed. “He must have a heart condition.”

"Joshua," she said sternly, "if you can hear me, don't you dare die on me, I’ll not have it." She saved Dr. Sullivan's number to her phone contacts in case she ever needed it again, and then dialed the number he had given her.

It rang once and then a sharp voice answered, managing to sound both groggy and attentive at the same time. "Lethbridge-Stewart speaking."

Rose was immediately intimidated, "I'm sorry to wake you, sir. This is Rose Tyler. I'm calling about Joshua."

There was the sound of quite a bit of movement. "What's happened?" The voice came with the sharp tone of command. A Brigadier indeed, he was someone who was used to getting answers completely and immediately.

"He's been in an... a car crash."

"Miss Tyler. Have you spoken to Dr. Sullivan?"

"Yes, he gave me your number, sir. Said he'd be here in a few minutes."

"He lives up your way. Are you hurt, Miss Tyler? Were you in the car with him?"

"No, I wasn't with him. He's knocked out and the medic says there's something wrong with his heart."

"They would think that. Don't let them do anything to him, Miss Tyler. Undoubtedly an ambulance has been called, but it is absolutely imperative that you do not let them administer any medication to him, my nephew has special conditions that only Dr. Sullivan is qualified to treat."

"Of course, sir," she agreed softly.

"Chin up, Miss Tyler," he said calmly. "You’ve done the right thing and can head home once Harry's there, he'll look after Joshua."

"I'm not leaving him," she replied determinedly. "I'm not."

There was a long, telling silence. Then, the calming voice spoke again. "Of course, Miss Tyler. We'll be meeting in about two hours, then. I look forward to it."

"Me, too, sir," she said quietly as another car pulled up and the wail of a siren could be now be heard several blocks away. "Think he's here now."

"Excellent," the Brigadier said. "Tell him to call me as soon as he has information."

"Yes sir. Thank you, sir."

"Thank you, Miss Tyler," the voice said, now quite warm, and then he rang off.

Rose ended the call and stuffed her mobile in the back of her jeans. "Hi Dr Sullivan," she said quietly to the man now kneeling on Joshua's other side.

She watched as the mustachioed doctor removed his wristwatch and lay it face up on Joshua’s stomach. He then placed both his hands, palms down on his patient’s upper chest and pressed down firmly but with care. The new contact made Joshua grunt in pain, though he never opened his eyes, Dr Sullivan timed his pulse using his wrist watch, in the most unorthodox fashion that Rose had ever seen.

"Normal," he said to himself, a look of relief replacing the worry on his face. "Hello, Miss Tyler. What happened?"

"Something really, really stupid," she said cringing.

"Looks like," Harry agreed, taking in the car and the lamp post with quick, observant eyes. "This had better stop, now, Joshua," he told his unconscious patient with and admonishing poke to the bicep, "or you're going into rehab."

"Fantastic," Joshua replied faintly, eyes still closed.

Rose gave a low cry of absolute relief. Harry stood to talk to the newly arrived EMS medics, but Rose didn't hear the conversation at all. "You're alive," she said softly, unable to stop herself from touching his face, taking his hand when what she really wanted was to hug him.

He squeezed it lightly. "Yeah, 'fraid so," was his morose reply. The part that hurt the most was that he seemed to mean it.

"Oh god, I could give you such a smack," she cried out instantly hurt and enraged at his unspoken meaning.

"Wait 'til he's more stable, won't you, poor old thing?" Harry asked, his eyes dancing.

"I'd've thought Sarah-Jane broke you of that," said Joshua slowly opening his eyes to look up at his friend.

Harry sighed instantly serious. "We'll talk about it later," he said. "Need to get you someplace a bit calmer. Give you a proper looking over."

Rose looked up in surprise and realized they'd drawn a quite a crowd, which struck her as odd for nearly two in the morning. 'Course it was a Saturday, and what else was there to do around here?

The police showed up shortly after Joshua’s running mate, John arrived. Harry made arrangements for the first responding to help them get Joshua home and then sending them off when his patient declined their help. John spoke with the lorry driver that came to tow the car away to impound. Rose remained at Joshua’s side, determined not to be separated from him in all the hustle and bustle, she hoped at least to be doing her part by providing him support.

Since Joshua was conscious, even though he was injured, the police woman made him do a breath test. "Fell asleep at the wheel," he lied calmly as she filled out her report. Rose listened intently as he briefly explained that he had been working long hours all week out of town and that he had pushed himself to return home quicker then he should have.

She didn't blame him for the lie, at least, since he wasn’t slurring and eyes were no longer bloodshot. He easily completed the non-moving portions of the sobriety test the police administered. But the complete miracle was when the breath test showed his blood alcohol content at absolutely zero.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 9**

Collapsed in a chair in Joshua's kitchen, feeling completely done in and quite a good bit of useless, Rose answered her ringing mobile with a gruff, "What, Mum?"

"Where are you?" Jackie's voice demanded stern and accusatory.

"I'm staying with Shireen tonight," she lied, wondering if she was too old to lie to her mother yet.

"Oh good," said Jackie, coldly. "Because Shireen just called to see if you were home. Something about running off and not answering your phone."

Yeah, way too old to lie to her mother. "Sorry, Mum," she said softly.

"So where are you then?"

"At Joshua's."

"That drunk from the pub!" Jackie shrieked.

_Pot, meet kettle_ , Rose thought vaguely and pulled her mobile away from her ear at the sheer volume of her mother’s voice. "He's been in an accident, Mum. His doctor's here and his uncle's on his way. Please, can we talk about this tomorrow?"

“My God! Rose, darling are you hurt? Were you with him” Jackie’s voice went up an octave and panic now tempered her anger.

“’m fine mum. I wasn’t with him. Can we please just talk about this later?”

“I take it by that, you’re not coming home.” Rose was quiet. "Fine," Jackie snapped. "But I'm going to talk and you're going to listen."

"Night, Mum." She hung up and hung her head.

The tears she had been fighting since the accident finally caught up to her, and started to roll heedlessly down her face. Her concern for Joshua was nearly more than she could stand and now her mum’s anger  added to her strain. She felt too full and hollow all at the same time. She tried to keep quiet while she cried, so as not to disturb Dr. Sullivan and John as they tended to Joshua, but her emotions had finally gotten the best of her and their release was so very much a relief.

The four of them had returned to Joshua’s flat less than thirty minutes ago. Joshua had made the climb to his flat on the fourth floor under his own power, fueled by pride but mostly because any aid or support they could provide to him, such as a shoulder to lean on or an arm put around him, caused him to cry out in pain. He nearly fainted when John and Dr. Sullivan tried to assist him when they began their ascent up the stairs.

Since leaving the scene of the accident, she had felt more than useless but she couldn’t bear the thought of going home and leaving Joshua. Once inside his flat Dr. Sullivan took over completely with John assisting him and she had drifted from room to room wanting to help but constantly finding herself in the way. To their credit, none of the men ordered her to leave and they spoke to her kindly but when the doctor quietly closed Joshua’s bedroom door leaving her alone in the hall, she got the picture and went to sit in the lounge.

She sat on the sofa and stared at the wall, waiting. She picked up one of Joshua’s notebooks that lay open on the coffee table and began idly flipping through trying to decipher the writing on the pages and ignore what was going on behind the closed door.

Suddenly there was a shout of real pain and the sounds of a scuffle. Joshua’s voice came clearly through the closed door as he roared, “Touch me again, Sullivan and I’ll put you through a damn wall!” The scuffle continued with a couple of audible grunts and then the groan of bed springs, then silence. The door opened and John came into the hall holding his side.

“You okay?” she asked.

John nodded giving her a knowing look and rolling his eyes before stepping into the bathroom across the hall.

Laying the journal back on the table she stood and met John in the hall, a stack of towels-both wet and dry and a box of plasters in his arms.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked again hearing the whine in her voice and not being able to stop it.

“We’ve got this,” John said gently as he stepped across the hall. “Should be done in a few more minutes and you can see him,” he said as he closed the bedroom door behind him.

Rose retreated to the kitchen to let the men do what they seemed to do best, take care of Joshua. She let the tears flow, unchecked, as she sat in misery waiting to hear of Joshua’s condition. Try as she might she couldn’t hold back a sob any longer and tried to muffle it with her fist as she wept. She didn’t know if she was having any luck with being quiet or not until a large hand closed on her shoulder and gently squeezed.

"I'll make you some tea," John said. "You just stay there."

"Thanks," she managed, a blush coloring her cheeks, and sniffled, snatching a napkin from a fancy little rack to dab at her eyes. If she'd been more coherent, she might have taken a moment to think about how embarrassed she should be, but she didn't have the energy to care. She just let the worry and tears drain out of her and then settled back in the chair like a wrung dishrag.

John set a nice cuppa in front of her and went rifling through the fridge for cream. When he found it, he offered it to her. She took a sip, just to test, her taste buds prickling to the incredibly sharp tang of the leaves and then added twice as much cream and sugar from the bowl on the table then she usually did.

Apparently, John was used to making the tea really strong for someone.

"How is he?" she asked softly almost afraid of what the answer might be.

"Harry has him resting at the moment.” John replied noisily pulling out the chair beside her to sit down with a restrained grunt and rubbed at the small of his back. “He did want me to ask if you knew about Joshua’s thumb."

"I saw it at the pub tonight, he didn't tell me what he did. Might've been this week, I haven’t seen him before tonight."

"He was in Cardiff on a consult."

"Oh, right." She sighed taking another sip of tea. Rose played at the soggy napkin in her fist and worried at her bottom lip. "I think this might be my fault." She quietly confessed.

"Trust me, it isn't," John said firmly, taking a sip from his own mug. "Joshua has more things than any of us can imagine going on in his head right now. And that’s part of the problem, he doesn't want them there. There's nothing any one of us can do about it until he wants to do something about it." The older man gave her a small, lopsided, almost teasing smile. "I was actually going to thank you, if I ever got the chance to properly meet you.” John said quite seriously. “I haven't seen him happy in a long time. But he was when he dragged you off to run across the park."

Rose felt herself blushing and a smile lit her face.

 _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Brigadier arrived at dawn and let himself into his nephew’s building by use of his spare key. Jogging up the stairs to the flat he braced himself for what he was about to walk into. When Miss Tyler had called on his personal line at the estate, he had been terrified that Joshua had finally succeeded in taking his own life and worse, that he had hurt someone else in his determination to do so. Admittedly, this was one of his biggest fears, even more so than alien invasion, that the Doctor would end himself under his careful watch, but the girl’s assurance that he was alive had assuaged his panic at the time.

Sullivan had placed a follow-up call twenty minutes later from the scene of the accident, catching him just before he left the estate for London, and reported that Joshua was indeed alive, conscience, and they would be taking him back to him flat to treat him. Conscience, was a relief and alive, was even better but he had wanted more information then what little Sullivan had so briefly provided and so had his frantic wife. He had tried to console himself and Doris with the information they did have and the knowledge that Benton or Sullivan would report should anything else go wrong.

Letting himself into Joshua’s flat he was taken aback by the silence that greeted him. He had been expecting a triage scene but was surprisingly met with the quiet of a hospital room at night, that forced calm that was for the patient’s benefit. Moving quietly down the hall he opened the bedroom door and found the girl sitting in a kitchen chair turned backwards and placed next to the bed. Her chin rested on her arm on the backrest and her hand clutched firmly to Joshua’s, the brave thing was doing her damnedest to fight sleep. Harry on the other hand was sprawled out in the upholstered bedroom chair, he had apparently lost the fight and way snoring away.

The Brigadier shot a concerned look at the young woman, then at his nephew lying so still in the bed. He winked conspiratorially at the girl and she smiled sleepily back. "Dr. Sullivan, report," he snapped in a low but commanding tone.

Miss Tyler giggled softly as Sullivan woke with a start and stared up at the Brigadier with huge, alarmed eyes. "Yes sir. Sorry sir." He straightened to his feet automatically, snapping to attention. "I had to sedate him, sir. The usual."

"Didn't want to end up in a cupboard again," the Brigadier observed dryly.

“I believe it was putting me through a wall this time.”

“That’s a new one.”

“He wouldn’t let me do my job, you know how he can get. Wouldn’t let Benton or I touch him without a fight. Besides he wouldn’t stay still, he wouldn't rest," the surgeon replied. "The way he was acting, between the adrenaline and the alcohol. . . . and I'm sure he hadn't slept in days."

The Brigadier nodded and sighed cutting off Harry’s rambling. "No serious injuries, though?"

"Bruised and banged up mostly. The airbags deployed on the driver’s side, that’s where the lacerations to his lip, brow and bridge of his nose came from as well as the black eye. He’s cracked or broken a few ribs as well but his lungs are sound and working fine. And he apparently nicked his thumb at some point during the week and put in a very neat row of stitches himself." Sullivan sighed. "Idiot," he added, very, very quietly. "Benton was here earlier to help but he had to work today. He has the papers for Joshua’s car, it’s currently in impound."

"Excellent work, Lieutenant," said the Brigadier, out of habit. They'd all retired, they all actually had different ranks entirely, but the old habits and the years they all worked together fell so easily from their lips, especially when the Doctor was around. "Are you staying, Miss Tyler?"

"Yes sir. I’m too knackered to move." She stirred in the chair and yawned. "Can I kip on the sofa?"

The Brigadier nodded and gestured at Sullivan, who retreated to the lounge to make it up for her.

"How long have you known him, Miss Tyler?" asked the Brigadier, kindly, sitting in the chair Harry had abandon.

"Three months, almost four now, I guess, sir. Ever since he starting coming down the Rose & Crown, anyway." She smiled dreamily and patted the hand she still held in her own. "He can be a sweetheart, even when he's messed up. Still gonna murder him for this one."

The Brigadier smirked. "I might have to let you, this time. Did you have a disagreement?"

"I don't know," she said feeling defeated. "Honestly, sir, I don't." Her free hand went up to push her bleached curls out of her face, tucking a lock behind her ear and puffed out a deep breath. "We seem to be like that, you know, close one minute, mixed up the next. Never seem to be on the same page together.”

"Thank you for your help tonight, Miss Tyler," he said, deciding to let her off the hook in defining her relationship with Joshua, best not to push too much, besides the poor girl swayed where she stood. "I expect you'd better get some sleep, now. Joshua will probably be miserable in the morning, and I’m sure he'll feel better for seeing you."

She nodded vaguely and looked around the room. "I don't suppose you know if he's got a vest I can borrow or something?" She plucked at her tight little blouse in distress.

The Brigadier stood and pulled the requested item from a dresser drawer and handed it to her without comment. She accepted it the same way, then leaned over and kissed the cheek of the still unconscious Time Lord.

"You may want to get him another blanket, I think he's got cold," she mumbled and, patted his hand that gently rested on his chest, turned and left.

Lethbridge-Stewart settled back into the plush chair picking up Joshua’s copy of _The Signalman_ off the bedside table and settled in to wait.

 ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

When Joshua woke, he felt like a hangover with a hangover. He lay still on his bed in the half light of his room assessing the damage of his most recent binge. Throbbing head, check. Gut twisting nausea, check. His mouth was uncomfortably dry and his tongue felt hairy, licking at his lips he winced at the swollen lump and cut he found there. Swallowing he tasted the faint metallic tinge of dried blood and his stomach clenched causing him to sit up quickly on the edge of the bed. He hissed at the electric shocks of pain that radiated through his chest and put all thoughts of being sick out of his mind.

His gaze and hands immediately came to his chest and torso finding thick bands of gauze and medical tape holding him together uncomfortably tight. Testing his tolerance and the full effect of his newest injury, he tried to take a deep breath expanding his lungs as fully as he could. He groaned loudly as again he was zapped by the electrified shocks of pain.

Harry appeared, in the door way, looking down at him and smirking. "Hurts, does it?" he asked coming into the room and taking a seat. Joshua often wondered what sort of medical school Sullivan went to to get a bedside manner that involved such gentle evil. Of course, Harry's bedside manner was better with other people, but then other people hadn't locked Harry in a coat cupboard in a fit of brilliant insanity and done a runner.

"What happened?" he asked weakly, panting to catch his breath.

"Interesting. Didn't think the short-term memory loss would apply to you. You totaled your car last night and a light post as well."

"I was driving . . . I was drunk and I was driving." He hunched over, putting elbows to knees despite the pain and buried his face in his hands, fighting tears. "Oh, God, what was I thinking??"

Harry sighed. "Joshua, I don't believe you were."

"I could have killed someone." He looked up at Harry and saw his face go white. "I could have killed someone else," he corrected coldly.

Harry shook his head sadly and stared into those haunted eyes. Those were almost the Doctor's eyes, and that was very nearly the Doctor's fury, raging in them, self-directed. Almost everything the Doctor didn't approve of stopped, and right now, the thing he least approved of was himself. "Joshua, listen to me. You didn’t and it isn't going to happen again."

"It could have happened," he said, his voice dark and his words clipped.

"But it didn't. Think man, would you do that again, knowing what you know now?"

Joshua blinked at him, in surprise. "Of course not," he snapped.

"Then you got off with a hard lesson."

Joshua’s countenance turned from anger to horror again as he began to piece together the night before. “Rose,” he choked and struggled to stand. “I remember Rose. She was there, oh Gods! Is she ok?” Blind panic welled up within him.

“Joshua, she’s - “

The Brigadier, thankfully, appeared in the doorway and glowered at them, an upraised finger to his lips to quiet the pair. Then, closing the door he turned to face Joshua, opened his mouth and spoke, slowly and carefully, the odd words they had been taught that would bring the Doctor back for a short period – ten minutes to be exact.

Joshua flinched and shuddered, sitting back down on the bed and then, when he looked up at them the difference was there. The tears were now pouring unchecked, and the eyes... Harry had honestly woken from nightmares about those eyes before. 

"Well? Is Rose ok? Have you got my sonic screwdriver?" he asked the Brigadier. The instrument was passed to him quickly.

Both men nodded simultaneously in agreement that Miss Tyler was indeed ok. The Doctor, noticing that neither man wanted to elaborate gave them a curt nod. Wiping his eyes he began making adjustments to his sonic.

"I have to admit I'm impressed.” He began. “Hard to impress, me. Also, damn hard to inebriate. Last of the... anyway, ignominious way to go, no matter how you look at it." He sighed and tugged out the dog tags from his bandages, then looked up at them, sincerity shining in those damp, haunted eyes. "Thank you, both of you."

Harry smiled, acknowledging the Doctor’s gratitude. "Are you going to do something about all these injuries?" he asked.

"No time," he said. "Besides, it's not like I don't deserve them" He tilted his head up and frowned, apparently calculating something, as he adjusted the settings on the screwdriver. "I'll suffer strapped ribs and bumps and bruises with the rest of them besides she would notice. I've got to get up a temporal and psychic dampening field and since I don't take these off,” he said removing the tags from around his neck. “It's ma safest bet. Are you sure Rose’s all right?"

"She's fine," the Brigadier admitted. He decided to let her tell him how she really was. The Brigadier wasn’t in any doubt that the young woman would let him have it.

"She's brilliant, isn't she?" the Doctor asked, almost cheerfully, even as he ran that weird, squeaky blue light beam over the tags.

Harry knew he and the Brigadier both would have jumped at the chance to ask about the girl last week, but now they needed to know something else. "What happened? What caused this other than stupidity.

The Doctor gave a humorless chuckle. “There was more than a fair bit of stupidity, I’ll admit to that. But it was my time sense. That's why I'm recalibrating the dampener. As Joshua I don't know about this stuff, I can’t hide it in my memory like everything else, and my awareness of it has got to be prevented. There are certain circumstances where I can lose control... well, I can't, but like I said, I don't know most of the time. This won't prevent my time sense, just keep my temporal energy closer to my body and hopefully under better control."

"What would happen?" the Brigadier asked.

"What circumstances?" Harry managed.

The Time Lord looked up at Harry with red tipped ears, cheeks quickly coloring and answered the Brigadier’s question instead. "Everything from confused impressions like last night to the entirety of East London getting tugged into a side tracked time line," he said, grimly. "I didn't think. . . it never occurred to me, but she's . . ." He smiled softly shaking his head  and lowered his gaze to the job at hand making another quick adjustment, he turned the screwdriver on his thumb, pulled the stitches and sealed the cut quickly. "Damn, that was annoying," he said not so subtly changing the subject. "How'd you talk the TARDIS out of my piano?"

"Very carefully," the Brigadier said steering the conversation back on track. "Why were you unconscious?"

"Defense mechanism," he admitted, grimly, but didn't seem to plan on saying anymore on the subject.

“Well that would have been nice to know about,” blurted Harry.

"What do you want us to do about Miss Tyler?" the Brigadier ventured ignoring Sullivan’s outburst. Finally asking the question he’d been dying to ask for weeks.

"Where is she?" the Doctor asked.

"Sleeping on the sofa. She was first on the scene, made all the necessary contacts and then waited up with you half the night." said the Brigadier.

“She wouldn’t leave your side.” Harry added.

Despite everything, the shattered pain in the alien's eyes and the worry in his voice, despite the fact that he still couldn't say "Last of the Time Lords" or hide the horror in his expression and body language, the Doctor looked up at them both with a question in his gaze. When they nodded, his eyes actually looked alive for the first time in the eight months since he had fallen out of his TARDIS onto the Brigadier's lawn. His smile came up like the dawn, wide and honest and so happy that less cynical men would have been brushing back tears.

"Fantastic," he said and then, the Doctor was gone, his body going slack, he fell back to lay unconscious on the bed.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 10**

"It never occurred to him?" the Brigadier mused. "What never occurred to him?"

Harry looked marvelously uncomfortable and shrugged non-committally taking a drink of Coke from his paper take-away cup, he turned his focus out the front window where they sat.

John brought the baskets of sandwiches and crisps to their table and settled in with an inquiring look. Harry and the Brigadier had decided to take a break from their vigil to join John for lunch, filling him in on their brief contact with the Doctor while Joshua and Rose slept off the night’s adventure. Now the gentlemen found themselves at a small sandwich shop around the corner from Joshua's flat, still debating on what to do about the never-ending crisis of an insane alien and his only slightly less unbalanced human disguise.

"What I can't get over is the power you said he mentioned," John said quietly opening his cup to add sugar to his coffee.

The Brigadier sighed. He felt almost ridiculous for that one as well. "It should have occurred to me after all this time that there's something more to the term 'Time Lord' than a trans-galactic public phone and a superiority complex."

John snorted into his coffee. "Bigger on the inside. Ship and him, apparently."

Harry shook his head. "It's almost alarming to think about. All those times we were stuck in a tight spot and he was actually worried... It makes me realize that the danger we were in had to have been much worse than it looked."

"I still think you're not telling us something," said John changing the subject, smiling that small, quiet smile that meant he was probably teasing Harry and possibly on to something.

Harry rolled his eyes and nibbled at his crisps. "I don't know, you understand, and I hesitate to speculate."

"Speculate, Dr. Sullivan," said the Brigadier swallowing a rather large bite of tuna salad. "That's an order."

"It's just, he definitely blushed when I asked. I didn't honestly know it was possible for him. He also treated the field dampener as the most urgent matter at hand, despite his apparent pain and the extreme level of toxins that have to be in his system. He was stone cold sober last night when the police officer was questioning him, and this morning he was pretty hung over. But at the rate he drinks... well, I don't know. Alien physiology. He can pass a breath test, but for all intents and purposes, his system should be saturated. If he were human..." Harry rambled.

“It’s a good thing they didn’t want to haul him back to the station for a blood or urine specimen. I’d have liked to see him pass that.” commented John around a mouthful.

“If he were human . . . we would be having an all together different conversation. The alcohol poisoning alone . . .”

 It looked as though Harry was trying to change the subject to Joshua's drinking problem, a problem that could and had been debated upon for hours and would continue to be so, but the Brigadier wasn’t going to be distracted. There was another issue at hand and Sullivan was doing his best to avoid it, turning up the intensity of his stare, the Brigadier glowered his subordinated into submission.

"The young lady has something to do with it,” Harry acquiesced to his commander’s prompting, “we know for certain something happened between the two of them last night that triggered the Doctor’s hidden time sense, something that he had to adjust the dampener to exist closer to his person. I know of very few circumstances when the Doctor's control would lapse, but I know one that definitely effects most males, despite the species." He sighed heavily and shook his head. "He thinks he's young, healthy, and human."

The stare he shot the Brigadier begged the older man to read his mind. Here Harry was at his Victorian best, the old style of Britain that found discussing anything other than the weather to be entirely too personal trying to convey the idea of romantic sensibilities as discreetly as possible to his superior. Harry would have been thrilled if the floor opened at that very second and swallowed him whole.

"And now we know why Harry went into the Navy instead of specializing," said John grinning, he was definitely teasing now.

The Brigadier shook his head and left his men to their banter tucking into his lunch. He had the gist of it now. Maybe he was a bit too Victorian himself, after all, even though he wasn’t immune to what Sullivan implied, far from it. Two wives, a string of random lovers, and three very intense affairs, but he'd never thought about physicality’s as it could apply to his old friend. The theory seemed sound.

"I think we've got the answer to your question, now, Harry," John was saying as the Brigadier began paying attention again.

Harry heaved a long-suffering sigh waiting for the coming punchline. "I've had far too many questions in the past eight months to know which specific one you are referring to."

"You asked once whether it was just Joshua who was interested in Rose," Benton prompted.

"Oh, yes," Harry said with vague recollection.

"Well, the Doctor seems quite fond of her. More than fond, I'd say."

The Brigadier snorted. Benton had always had a gift for understatement. The expression they had seen on the Doctor's face was one he thought he never would again. In the past, it had been reserved for amazing moments of discovery, for brilliant successes and, occasionally, survival in the face of unimaginable odds. Until just a few hours ago, the Doctor hadn't even wanted to survive.

It had felt like hope.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Benton waited until he saw the back of the Brigadier marching away from the sandwich shop take-away bags in hand through the window before he began. “All right, all niceties aside, we already know he's physically compatible with her.”  


Harry blushed. He knew this conversation needed to take place and he preferred it to be with John alone but that didn't mean the topic didn't make him uncomfortable or want to laugh like a school boy or at worst a bawdy soldier.  


“Come on.” John prodded, watching his friend's face redden in embarrassment.  


Harry nodded his head in agreement and took a long drink from his cup. Forcing down all thoughts of impropriety he nodded to John again encouraging his friend to continue.  


John took the prompt and continued. “We've both, I’m sure, had social contact with him I mean. The loo. And the showers at UNIT and the gym. If we go by looks alone he's pretty much the same as you or me.” John began to feel a blush creep up his own collar. This was an awkward conversation to have.

Harry nodded again he knew what John was getting at. Strictly from the male perspective who wouldn't covertly check out the competition especially if you were aware of the fact that the bloke that was using the cubicle next to you was actually an alien. But there was more to share in this conversation then basic physical anatomical similarities.   


“You're correct. I don't believe there would be a problem for either of them if they decided on engaging in an intimate coupling. However, I do believe that there is a greater concern for a pregnancy risk than that of a strictly human coupling.”  


John took a sip of his coffee and nodded, encouraging the physician to continue.  


“A dual cardiac system and respiratory bypass was not all his species was blessed with in differentiation between our own.”  


“What are you saying Sullivan?”

“Testicular didelphys.”

“What?”

“Testicular didelphys or polyorchidism. It means, internally, Joshua has a dual reproductive system.”  


“He's got what!” John choked as the implications of what Harry said hit home. “You mean he has a second di...”  


“No.” Harry jumped in cutting him off. “I meant what I said. Internally. Joshua has a dual reproductive system.”

And with that declaration the men fell into silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts as they sat and sipped at their drinks. A good 15 minutes passed before Harry broke the silence feeling the need to further clarify and not quite so nervous now that he had laid most of his cards on the table.   


“His anatomy contains four fully functioning testicles and a double helix urethra to be exact. And he may well have the ability to release from them both jointly or independently. Mind you their function is mostly speculation as what I have extensively on the Doctor's anatomy is written in Gallifreyan. I've been mostly going off of pictures in this determination.”  


John just gaped at him his eyes wide and mouth slightly opened. Harry hit his stride then and delivered the rest of his news.

“For Rose's sake and well, all our sanity I feel that it is imperative that we come between the pair and split this up while we can before it gets too far. Especially now that we know he is attracted to the young woman.”  


John made a noise of objection, he had just that day told Rose that Joshua was so much happier than he had ever seen him because of her.  


“Well, then the other option is to have a conversation with Joshua about sex.”  


“You want to have the “birds and the bees” talk with the Doctor?” John grinned finding humor in the suggestion, this was the craziest conversation he had ever had about the Doctor.  


“No, I think someone should talk to Joshua about safe sex practices. I’m not insulting his intelligence. If he can remember alien technology, then I'm sure the do's and don’ts of reproduction are floating around in that big brain of his. I'm merely saying he probably could use a refresher course especially in light of this new information. He may think he's human but his body doesn’t seem to be functioning under that charade.”  


“So, when are you going to have this talk with him?”  


Harry turned red and looked down at his clasped hands before answering. “I had hoped you would.”  


John barked out a laugh. “You’re having me on aren't you? You’re having a go because I took the piss out of you three weeks ago at the pub.”  


“I most certainly am not. I'd forgotten all about that. And I'm totally serious.”   


That shut him up. John sat there and stared out the window thinking while Harry finished his Coke. “Why am I the one to do it? You're his doctor shouldn't this fit into your area of expertise?”

Harry blushed again. “Well I intend to tell him. I wanted to bring it up to you first so that you could help me come up with a plan if we needed to. But now that I think of it, you are so much better at talking about this particular topic.”  


“I don’t know if I should be offended or complemented by that remark.”  


“Definitely complemented. I just can't John, really. Could you please just talk to him.”

John considered what his friend said. Harry was probably right, he was terrible when it came to talking about sex. Even when they had been lads serving their time at UNIT, Harry had never been one for jumping into the more racy or scandalous conversations or going out on the town when they were on leave to meet a few birds. Back then he’d only been keen on one girl and that dark-haired journalist only had eyes for the Doctor. No, Harry was not the man for this job.

“So when am I supposed to have this talk with him?”

 _______________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Rose woke to the soft strains of a piano playing. She sat up slowly and rubbed at her eyes, trying to figure out why she was sleeping in her jeans, and then where exactly she was. The music filtering through the room was dark, airy, and familiar. Phantom of the Opera, she thought. Or was it Puccini?

What ever.

She looked down at the oversized olive vest she was wearing and finally remembered. Joshua. She considered calling out to him, but thought better of it. He was supposed to be lying down, taking it easy. She lifted herself gingerly from the sofa stretching out the kinks and followed her ears out of the lounge and down the hall.

The second bedroom at the end of the hall had been converted into a music room. There was a completely over the top looking sound system, a violin on an end table and, over by the window, a small upright piano. She would have looked at the instruments more closely, but Joshua was there sitting on the bench, his back to her, and she fell still to watch him play while he didn't know she was there.

He was wearing neither jacket nor jumper today. His ribs had been wrapped in thick bands of tape and bandages and his skin was bare and tanned above and below the taut white fabric. Without the bulk of his clothes she was surprised to find him long and slender and slightly lanky in only his jeans and bare feet. He had an athlete's build, really, a runner's or a swimmer's, and his muscles flexed attractively with his movements under a smooth hairless back. His long-fingered hands swept gracefully over the keys when she could see them, and she almost stopped breathing at the thought of those hands touching her, playing her like they played that piano, with delicacy and loving precision.

He came to the end of the song and she struggled to think of something to say, how to begin, but his fingers never stilled. He played a modulating chord, a short chromatic run, two more chords, and then drifted into something she recognized. The song they had written together, but the way he played, it sounded, like an apology in music, and she crept into the room closer.

"I'm just making it up as I go along," he said, softly. So, he knew she was there, after all. She wasn't surprised. He seemed to be able to find her anywhere in the pub or the neighborhood, so why not in his own flat? "Can't find anything that rhymes with 'stupid'."

"How ‘bout 'I won't do it again'?" she suggested.

"Well, it doesn't rhyme, but it's true." His hands stilled, the room now startlingly quiet. Then he reached up, closed the piano lid, and turned wincing on the bench to look at her. "I am so sorry."

"You scared me," she told him and, to her horror, felt her eyes begin to burn. Her vision blurred. She fought it, swallowing hard.

Then she felt his hand work its way into her own, and another brushing softly at the tears on her face. "Rose, please," his dark voice whispered. "Please don't cry." The sound of tears thick in his voice. "I'm not worth it," he pleaded. "Oh, precious girl, don't you see, I'm not worth your tears."

She didn't know what she was saying, just aware that she was murmuring his name, miserably, her body trembling with the effort of trying to compose herself. He was leading her out of the room, but it wasn't until he detached his hands to sit her down and soon after place a cup of tea in front of her that she realized he'd brought her to the kitchen. She shivered as his hands cupped her shoulders through his borrowed shirt. "I . . . I don't mean to cry," she told him at last. "I lost . . . You shouldn't talk like that, Joshua. You're very important to . . . a lot of people."

He let her go with a pat to her shoulders and as he fixed his own cuppa managed a half smile. "Don't cry over me, Rose," he said, very seriously. "No one should ever make you cry for any reason."

"Just... just promise me you won't..."

"I will never drive while drunk again," he promised sincerely, his voice catching on this newly sworn oath.

She wiped at her eyes again, with a napkin from the table and nodded, sipping at her tea. She had noticed it was the driving and not the drinking he was swearing off of. It would have to do. Joshua eased carefully into the seat across from her, joining her in the reflective silence of the moment.

Her mobile rang and she picked it up off of the table, she must have left it there the night before. It was her mum, so she hit the 'ignore' button.

Joshua looked up from his tea at her then, his eyes narrowed and expectant. "Aren't you going to answer Rickey? He probably wants to know where you are."

She glowered at him. "For your information, it's me mum, she knows where I am, and she's not half angry about it."

He sighed, absently rubbing at his bandaged chest, wincing. "Right. ‘m sorry." He looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time and she found herself smiling slightly. It might really be the first time he was seeing it clearly, anyway.

The mobile rang again and she answered it. "What is it, Mickey?" she said.

Joshua shot her a dark but triumphant look and got up from the table to lean against the sink while Mickey babbled in her ear that her mother was on her way.

"Shit," she said. "All right, I'll just go down and wait or something. Look, thanks, I owe you." Then she rang off and looked up to tell Joshua he was about to be invaded by a very angry mother if she didn't get out of there right away.

The stormy expression on his face stopped the words on her lips as she stood to leave. "So off you go, then. Have a good afternoon with Rickey the Idiot. See ya . . . ."

She slapped him. Hard. He had it coming anyway, and this was just too much. Her hand buzzing with the force of the blow, she swore at him a little while he stood there left hand pressed against his cheek, saying nothing, just staring at her looking thoroughly stunned.

“You bastard.” She spat at him, fire in her eyes, her emotions running raw and unchecked by lack of sleep and desperation. “One minute you’re sorry and the next you’re being a right cock. How dare you say that to me after this. . . complete and utter lapse in your judgement last night. There’s no need to be an arsehole. For once, use that beautiful brain of yours and think about someone else for a change.”

She stormed off to the lounge to find her shirt so she could leave. When it didn't turn up in the first two places she looked, she glowered down at the vest and decided, what the hell, it was hers now. "And just so you know," she added as a parting shot standing in the open doorway of his flat, "I wasn't going to go out with him. But I am now."

She slammed the door and ran.

 ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Joshua opened the nearest cabinet, pulled out the Lagavulin and a shot glass, placed the glass neatly on the table next to Rose’s beaker and drank straight from the bottle. By the time the Brigadier returned, his nephew was unconscious on the sofa, clutching tight to the pillow Rose had slept on, his nose buried in the fabric of her white blouse, with long tracks of tears drying on his face.

For the first time in his memory, Joshua's dreams were clear. But like always, they left him terrified and miserable. This time, he dreamed of Rose's face: as she looked down on his prone form the night before, tears trickling down her cheeks, as she told him that she had decided to go out with Rickey and wouldn’t be seeing him anymore. 

Then her form changed to the squeal of tyres against the pavement and the scream of twisting metal. They had traded places and it was him kneeling helplessly over her bruised and broken body. “No. Rose, no.” he cried and tears stung his eyes as she lay there unresponsive. “You can’t leave me! Please! Don’t leave me.” A sob shook his body awake and into the arms of his uncle.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 11


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 12


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 13


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 14


End file.
